I opened my bedroom door carefully, keeping the bag concealed. Just as well, because the door to Mum and Dad’s bedroom opened and Dad stood there, gazing at me, his eyes blank and distant.
‘Jamie.’
‘Hi, Dad.’
‘What’s going on?’ He ran a hand through his hair.
‘Nothing. No news. Go back to bed.’
He continued to stare as if not comprehending my suggestion. Maybe he didn’t. I was almost tempted to take him by the arm and lead him back, but he was so wired I couldn’t guarantee he wouldn’t scream. It was a stand-off. His hands twisted against each other, like he was washing them.
‘I can’t sleep,’ he said eventually. ‘Whatever I do I can’t sleep. Need the bathroom.’
I nodded and waited. He continued to stand, but then seemed to remember why he was there and shambled off down the corridor. I waited until I heard the door close and then I lugged the pack down the stairs. I propped it up outside the front room and listened at the door. Gardner was still speaking on the phone. I glanced at my watch and prayed no one would think to open the door to the hallway. What was keeping Summer?
Then I heard her scream.
There were sounds of scrambling feet from the front room. I waited about twenty seconds and opened the door. The room was deserted but the kitchen door was slightly ajar. I could see a slice of Gardner’s suit. Summer’s voice was loud and panicky.
‘I saw someone through the kitchen window,’ she said. ‘A man. He was there a moment ago.’
The slice of suit moved. I rushed over to the pack in the corner and exchanged it for the one full of textbooks. Mine sagged in a way the other didn’t, but there was no time to do anything about it. I took the money and went back out into the hallway. Dad was coming down the stairs, his previous lethargy gone, face filled with terror. I dumped the bag against the stairwell and stood in front of it.
‘What is it, Jamie?’ he said. ‘I heard screaming.’
‘In the kitchen,’ I said. ‘Summer thought she saw someone in the garden.’
Dad brushed past me and I took the pack and hefted it up the stairs. It was damn heavy and I was relieved when I finally had it stowed under my bed. Then I went down and joined the others.
The big guy had gone into the garden, presumably in pursuit of Summer’s imaginary intruder. Gardner was on the phone again. Dad had his arm around Mum, whose fist was pressed halfway into her mouth. Summer gave me a questioning look and I nodded.
‘I might have imagined it,’ she said. ‘My nerves have been playing up recently.’
There was considerable bustle, but it all calmed down after fifteen minutes. The big guy came back in and shrugged. Eventually we all went back into the front room and settled down to wait for a call I knew wasn’t coming.
I got a text message, though. At nine-thirty my phone buzzed and everyone reacted like they’d been tasered. I held up a hand. ‘It’s just Gutless,’ I said. I opened up the message.
steakout at monkhouse place. dude hasnt bin in school 2day but shitloads gossip. maybe wife or mhouse bin shagging sumone els. sumone moving out. seen car loaded up with own eyes. fuckin worldwar going on in his house. Da Horse.
I deleted the message and while I was at it, went to settings and deleted the record of the last incoming call.
At midnight I excused myself and went to bed, promising I would come down if my phone rang. Gardner vetoed the idea. He insisted that if I wanted to go to bed I would have to leave my phone with him.
‘Trust me,’ he said. ‘When it rings, I will be in your bedroom in five seconds.’
I thought about it. I didn’t think I would have further use for the phone, especially as I had already received directions. In some ways, it was to my advantage. Gardner’s attention would be focused entirely upon my phone, which meant he wouldn’t be checking up on me during the night. Or, even worse, posting the big guy outside my bedroom door. But I worried a little anyway. What if the kidnapper changed the instructions and tried to tell me at six in the morning? Gardner would come rushing to my room and find it deserted. The shit would hit the fan in a very big way. In the end, I decided I would have to take my chances. The phone would ring out or Gardner would be forced to answer it. Either way, the kidnapper would understand I wasn’t in a position to take further instructions.
So I handed over the phone and went to my room. I had no idea what the morning would bring, but I thought it wise to get what rest I could, even though I knew I couldn’t sleep. More than anything else, however, I needed space and time to think.
Time to prepare.
CHAPTER 25
I keep to the track of broken lines in the middle of the street. Everywhere is dark. Everywhere is quiet, except for the soft kiss of rubber soles on tarmac.
I’m conscious of the weight of two million dollars on my back, but the backpack takes that weight and distributes it, just as the man in the shop said it would. After half a kilometre, I almost forget it’s there. I keep my head down, focusing only on the lines. At the back of my mind is the possibility that someone might step out in front of me. Perhaps an addict. Maybe just an ordinary thief, looking for a few bucks in a wallet, a backpack to sell. I imagine his face when he opens up his prize and finds two million dollars in neatly packed bundles, rather than dirty socks, T-shirts and torn jeans. I know it’s unlikely. I also know I have a gun tucked into my waistband. For the moment at least, I’m glad it’s there.
Time passes and, as it does, loses meaning. It is one step in front of another. Another broken line and then another. I think of Phoebe’s face. For some reason, I think of her expression when she is mad. At me. Or the world at large. The way her mouth sets in that determined, thin line, her little brow scrunching. Putting her hand on her hip, turning a foot. The classic body language of annoyance. And then I think of how quickly that changes. When I tickle her or make her smile by saying something silly. Her irritation dissolves. Solid and immutable one instant, insubstantial the next, gone entirely a moment later. How life floods into her eyes and her lips part, revealing small teeth with that tiny gap between the front two.
I feed on those images and the belief that every step takes me closer to her.
The meeting point is an hour’s walk away. I know the general area. It is run down, a suburb that used to be home to an industrial complex before a new development on the far side of the city brought about its death. Now it’s a landscape of desolation, empty buildings, vast car parks where the tarmac is cracked and weeds invade, chain-link fences full of gaping holes. It’s a year since I passed by it, on a trip with Dad to a destination that escapes my memory. I suspect chaos will have made further inroads. It’s a good choice, at least from the point of view of the owner of the mechanical voice. It is far from residential property, yet the roads that once serviced it are still there. Any movement in the complex would be easy to pick up, for someone observing. A difficult place to infiltrate without being seen. Yet also ideal for escape, the roads branching off in every direction, so that, within fifteen minutes, a car would be lost among a multitude of possible highways.
I will be early for my appointment, but I understand that I will almost certainly not be early enough. He will be there already. Possibly, he was always there. I see him in my mind’s eye, on top of a building, perhaps, scanning the landscape through night-vision binoculars, waiting for the signs of those grey-suited figures with guns slung over their shoulders, threading their way across fields, through fences, swarming into buildings and finding holes in which to hide. He is listening for the drone of a helicopter. Yes, he will already be there. Prepared to follow through on his threat at the first sign of scurrying movement. Is Phoebe at his side, shivering in the chill night air, her hands tied in front of her? Does she, too, watch, wait and suspect her world is on the cusp of ending? What thoughts will go through her head? Is she aware that I am coming for her? Does that help keep her darkness at bay? The questions are insistent but I try to push them away,
and focus only on the road markings and my feet as they move in and out of vision.
I have no plan and that is curiously liberating. Game theory has fucked me, filled my head full of stratagems and suspects, the illusion of being in control. What did Summerlee say about me? Something about my overwhelming fucking sense of superiority. She is right. I look back on all my pathetic game-playing, the logical processing of potential suspects, all of it underpinned by the feeling, the certainty, that no one could outsmart me. Not me, Jamie Delaware, game-theorist and complete idiot. And where did it all lead? I still have no idea who is behind this. Probably a complete stranger or someone I don’t know who Summer pissed off, just because she’s Summer and that’s what she does. But I couldn’t accept that because it didn’t involve me. I couldn’t bear to be a bit player, a medium to take messages, a packhorse to deliver the money. I have to be centre stage.
So it has come to this. A decision based not on game theory, but on the logic of the gut. Leave it to the police or trust my instinct? Dixon had expressed it well. I was torn between two courses of action and no matter what I did I couldn’t see what the future held. I have a gun. Yeah, big deal. And that turns me into Bruce Willis? I am sixteen years old, a high school student who excels at maths. Until this week, the height of my daring was planning to go to university in Sydney to study applied mathematics. I’m a kid, not a superhero. What did the careers counsellor say at school? Always consider your skill sets. Well, this is not my skill set. But I believed the kidnapper when he said if the police came, I wouldn’t see Phoebe again. I feel that truth. So, in the end, I have to acknowledge a number of things. He is in control. This is the way he wants it to play out, so this is the most likely course of action to get my sister home safe. These are his rules, and game theory was never going to help.
But the gun is in the waistband of my jeans and I will use it. If necessary.
Dawn is gathering force. I glance at my watch. It’s five-thirty; I have been walking for forty-five minutes. I have not passed another soul, though a few cars thread through the streets and force me to walk on the footpath. People starting their days. Just another day, another routine. Get to work, do the job, go home to wives, husbands, children. When I glance up, I see the sky lightening almost with every passing step. A few birds sing. One car passes with its window down, and a blast of song from the sound system washes over me. I notice the Doppler effect as it turns the corner and vanishes from my world. I take one step, then another.
I am not calm. I feel disengaged from everything around me, but also disengaged from myself. I’m defined by nothing but the taking of steps, one after another. This might be an advantage, this disassociation. But maybe it won’t be. I retreat further into myself. I cannot feel the weight of money on my shoulders. I cannot feel the pressure of the gun against my back.
And then I see the site ahead of me. It’s dark and full of shadows, despite the weak sun struggling over the horizon.
CHAPTER 26
The instructions were clear.
Approach the site from the south. There is a large perimeter fence about two metres high with barbed wire along the top. There is a pair of metal double gates and a faded notice that reads KEEP OUT about halfway along the fence. Go through the gates, which are not secured. Directly facing you are two buildings. The one on the right has a partly collapsed roof. Walk between the two buildings and into a clearing on the far side. To your right, about a hundred metres in the distance is something that looks like a water tower. It has no windows. Go into this tower. The door seems locked, but it isn’t, though you might need to use force to open it since the frame is warped. Climb the stairs, which are directly opposite you. When you can go no further, you will find yourself in a large circular room with no fittings. I will meet you there. Even though there are no windows, part of the ceiling has fallen in and this will provide sufficient light to help you see. Be in that room, with the money, at eight a.m. Come alone.
I have not come directly from the south, so I walk around the perimeter fence for about a kilometre until I recognise the double gates in the distance. It’s almost like a film set, a post-apocalyptic landscape where the remainders of humanity light small fires against the chill of a nuclear winter. Parts of the fence sag outwards, a series of distended bellies. The ground is uniformly concrete, though tufts of grass have found purchase in cracks and potholes. In places the concrete has been pushed up by things growing below. It’s easy to imagine how, in years to come, green will re-establish itself as structures decay. In time it will all disappear. In time it will all be green.
I walk away from the fence, fifty metres or so from the boundary but approaching a position directly opposite the central gates. The sign is there, but it has faded from what must have been bright red to a washed-out pink. The P in KEEP OUT has almost disappeared and the sign hangs at an angle. One gate is ajar about forty-five degrees, turned inwards. I can see the two buildings clearly, a couple of hundred metres past the fence and beyond another large expanse of cracked concrete. The structures have rows of metal window frames, three storeys high. Only a handful of the windows have glass as far as I can see, and each of those is broken. A factory of some kind. A place where people spent hour after hour operating machinery, churning out some product, before returning to their real worlds. Exchanging time – entire lives, perhaps – for far less money than I am carrying on my back. Now all that labour has vanished and the skeletons of the buildings are reminders of futility.
I squat down on my haunches and watch the site. I am under an old tree and I don’t think anyone watching from those buildings would be able to see me easily. But of course I can’t be sure.
The sun is still very low in the sky, and patches of shadows shift across the buildings’ facades, giving the illusion of movement. A bright flash to my left makes me turn my head. I see nothing. Maybe it was a ray of sunlight brushing a fragment of broken glass. Another movement, to my right this time. But it’s only a pigeon scrabbling for something on the ground. I see no signs of human life. But wherever I look, movement occurs in my peripheral vision. It’s unnerving.
I close my eyes and try to order my thoughts. I have no idea what I should do next. I am two hours early for the appointment but that affords no advantage as far as I can tell. It had been my only choice, since I was anxious to get out of the house before my disappearance was noted. Now I go through possible scenarios, but none are valid. I will meet him in that water tower, I will hand over the money and hope he keeps his word. And if he doesn’t, then I have the gun. The last resort. I pray it doesn’t get to that.
At seven-thirty I get to my feet and walk towards the gate. I am feeling light-headed and the sun hurts my eyes. I pass the faded sign and stop just beyond the gate. The huge expanse of concrete must have been a car park at one time. The bays are marked out in faded yellow lines. I walk. The windows in the buildings before me seem to track my every step. The movements in my peripheral vision become more marked, but I try to ignore them and focus on the gap between the structures, a void draped in deep shadow. As I go further into the deserted site, the silence seems to gain substance and my calf muscles begin to cramp.
Between the buildings, it is cold and dark. There are no windows on the side of either building and the alleyway is rank with weeds and the smell of dog shit. I feel goosebumps on my arms. The feeling of being watched has increased and I can’t tell whether it’s that or the chill in the air that’s making me shiver. I have this strong impression that someone will step out in front of me, at the end of the alley, and block my path. He will be large and dark – a silhouette against the backdrop of day – and all my fantasies involving guns and confrontations will dissolve in terror. But it doesn’t happen. I step out into the pale sunshine and I am grateful. I glance behind me. There is no one there either. I shift the pack further up onto my back and take a couple of steps forward.
It’s impossible to miss the tower. It’s not a water tower – at least I don�
��t think so. It’s a bleak monolith, almost completely featureless, and made of brick. A central column stretches towards the sky and at the top, blossoms into a circular structure. It’s like an attenuated mushroom. From its left-hand side a narrow metal walkway stretches across to a similar structure, though this one has no cap at its summit. Despite what the kidnapper told me, there are slits along the sides of both towers, almost like arrow notches in medieval castles.
I wonder why he chose this location for the meeting. If I had brought police then he could have been easily trapped up there. It might be possible to get across the walkway, but that leads simply to another tower, with no escape. In fact, the more I look, the more the walkway seems derelict. In a few places a rusted metal bar hangs, dangling into space. If he is in that tower, he is trapped. But instructing me to go to the tower doesn’t mean he is there. Logic tells me he is somewhere else entirely, watching from some vantage point, ensuring I am alone, that I have fulfilled my part of the bargain. No. Neither the kidnapper nor Phoebe are there. But I am not in control. I have no option except to follow the directions and see where they lead.
So I walk towards the tower, conscious now of the hard pressure of the gun against the small of my back. I wonder if that is something noticeable through a pair of binoculars. Everywhere is quiet. Even the few birds have stopped singing. The door to the tower is made of solid wood, though years of exposure have buckled and stained it. I put a hand against its surface and push but nothing happens. I try my shoulder next and it gives slightly. I can’t help thinking that this door has not been opened in some considerable time.
It takes three good shoulder charges before the door finally gives way. When it does, a hinge breaks and the door tilts drunkenly. I step inside. The air has a stale taste with an underlying tinge of rot, as if something has died in here a long time ago and been reduced to bones and a faint aura of corruption. It is very dark, and the doorway admits little light. I stand for a moment or two to let my eyes adjust. Within a minute I can see well enough to determine that there is nothing within, except a spiral metal staircase on the far side of the circular room. Somewhere, something clanks and I freeze. The noise is not repeated, though I stand for a further three minutes. I glance at my watch. It is ten minutes to eight. I am six hundred seconds from my appointment. I can’t imagine it will make much difference if I am a few seconds early. I move towards the staircase.
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