Game Theory

by Barry Jonsberg

  In the end I sit down again and wait.

  CHAPTER 28

  When Dixon returns he is carrying the backpack, slung over his left shoulder. In his right hand is a plate of sandwiches. He drops the pack on the floor and places the plate on the table in front of me. I ignore it.

  He opens the bag and takes out a block of green notes, puts it next to the plate. I ignore that as well. Then he takes his seat again.

  ‘Do you know what surprised me, Jamie?’ I decide this is a rhetorical question. He picks up the slab of cash and flicks through it. ‘The counting of the money. And just how much fun it is. An appalling cliché, I know. Sitting there, counting up the blocks. Then counting all the notes in each block. Checking that the hundred dollar bills were all present and accounted for, that no one had substituted blank paper in the centres. Ensuring that the whole lot added up to two million. Which it does, by the way. God, I had fun.’

  ‘I’m pleased for you,’ I say. ‘Now bring me Phoebe.’

  ‘Be patient.’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I can’t be patient. I do not want to sit here replaying your brilliance. If you want my admiration you are welcome to it. You were amazing, Dixon. Well played. You outclassed me, okay? I was a beginner and you were the pro. You kicked my butt. You destroyed me. I give up. Now bring me Phoebe.’

  Dixon picks up a sandwich and takes a bite. He chews for a moment and then grimaces, puts the rest back on the plate, wipes his mouth with the back of a hand.

  ‘Probably wise of you not to eat,’ he says. ‘I’m not much good in the kitchen. Even a cheese and tomato sandwich is beyond me, it seems. The bread is stale. The cheese is processed. Like plastic. Even the tomatoes are tasteless.’

  I close my eyes.

  ‘I’ll get your sister for you,’ he says quietly and I open my eyes again, wondering if I’ve heard right. ‘I know what you’re thinking. That maybe she’s dead and I can’t bring her to you. But I told you, Jamie. She’s fine. I just thought we might have a little chat without her, but maybe that’s unfair. I understand. I’ll get her.’ He stands and leaves.

  Suddenly my heart is racing. Now that the moment is almost here it’s unbearable. Maybe unbelievable. Dixon was right. The thought that perhaps Phoebe isn’t in this building, that possibly she is stiff and cold in some dark place, has never left my mind. It wriggles there still, like a pale maggot. I stare at the door, which he has left open. I long for that blank space to be filled with her. My mouth is dry and a bead of sweat drips into my right eye, blurring my vision for a moment.

  When it clears, Phoebe is standing there. Dixon is behind her and has one hand on her shoulder.

  She stands like a maths equation, perfect and indisputably true.

  Something rises in my throat and I gag on it. And then everything blurs. I make no sound as I weep, but my body is trembling. I tilt my head and wipe my eyes on my shoulder. I resent anything hindering my vision. When I’m able to see again, she is still there, still true.

  Phoebe runs to me and buries her face in my neck. I try to put my arms around her, but my hands are tied so I can’t. She mumbles something into my ear. I think it is my name, repeated over and over. I feel her tears, damp on my skin. We stay like that for a long time, Phoebe clinging to me, arms wrapped tightly. I luxuriate in her warmth. Eventually, she moves her head away, plants a kiss on my cheek, hugs me again.

  ‘I keep my word,’ says Dixon, but I don’t pay him any attention. ‘Phoebe, love, come over here, there’s a good girl. I know you’ve missed your brother but he and I need to chat for just a little while longer and then this will all be over. You’ll go home to Mum and Dad and your sister and everything will return to normal. I promised you that and like I’ve said, I keep my word. So come and sit with your uncle Dixon.’

  Phoebe immediately breaks contact with me and goes over to Dixon’s side of the table. He has placed a chair next to his and she sits. Phoebe glances up at Dixon and gives him a small smile. Tears still run down her cheeks, but she smiles. I hated him before. I hate him even more now. He will not take a part of my sister with him, not even the smallest part of her mind or her affections. I will not lose any more of her. Not to him. Not to anyone. Dixon smiles back, pats her on the head. My hands tense.

  ‘I tell you, Jamie,’ he says. ‘I’ve met a few kids in my time but none to match your sister here. I never had children myself, and that was a source of regret, you know? The job took up too much of my time, physically and emotionally. Cost me my marriage.’

  ‘Are you asking for my sympathy?’ I ask.

  Dixon waves a hand dismissively. ‘Of course not,’ he says. ‘But I suppose I want your understanding. I am not a bad guy, Jamie. Seriously, I’m not.’

  I don’t say anything. It’s still too dangerous. But I’m stunned by the man’s arrogance. He kidnapped my sister, put all of us through the worst kind of hell and he wants my understanding? For the first time, I think he might be mad. Clever, but mad. I have to be careful.

  ‘Tell him, Phoebe,’ he says. ‘Tell your brother how you’ve been treated while you’ve been my guest.’

  ‘It’s been fun, Uncle Dixon,’ says Phoebe. Her eyes are all round with sincerity. I notice she is still wearing that appalling dress, the green smock with the bright bow. She swings her legs to and fro in front of the chair. Her shoes are different as well. They are shiny and have big buckles. Her hair is scraped back into a ponytail. I have never seen her wear a ponytail before. Phoebe meets my eyes. ‘Uncle Dixon lets me cook sometimes, Jamie. I’ve done spaghetti bolognese and I’ve put chips into the oven and everything.’ There’s something different about her voice as well. It’s sing-songy and slightly too high in pitch. I feel as if my real sister is somewhere else and this girl is playing her part, an understudy only.

  Dixon laughs.

  ‘She’s a much better cook than I am,’ he says. ‘Though that’s not saying a lot. No, Phoebe has been a marvel. She’s cooked and she’s cleaned and dusted.’

  The sense of unreality grows. Phoebe doesn’t clean and dust. She doesn’t cook. I don’t say anything.

  ‘And Uncle Dixon tells me stories at bedtimes,’ Phoebe says breathlessly. ‘Really, really good stories. About Red Riding Hood and Goldilocks and the Three Bears. And he tells them brilliantly.’ She is staring earnestly at me and I can’t help but think she’s trying to tell me something, but that I’m too stupid to understand. Phoebe outgrew those fairy stories years ago.

  ‘She’s a credit to your family,’ says Dixon. ‘She really is.’

  ‘Can I make myself a mug of Milo, Uncle Dixon?’ says Phoebe. ‘Can I, please? Pretty please?’

  He pats her on the head. I wonder how many times we will have to wash her hair before the taint is gone.

  ‘Of course, Phoebe,’ he says. ‘And help yourself to a biscuit. Be careful with that kettle, though.’

  ‘I will, Uncle Dixon,’ she replies. ‘Thank you sooo much.’

  ‘And then you should pack up your things. Your brother and I are nearly done here and then it will be time to go home. You’ll like that, won’t you, Phoebe?’

  ‘Yeees,’ she says, her mouth drawn down. ‘But I will see you again, won’t I, Uncle Dixon?’

  ‘Maybe, Phoebe,’ he replies. ‘Whatever happens, I will write to you. That’s a promise.’

  ‘Back soon, Jamie,’ says Phoebe, and she skips through the door. I watch her go and wonder if the blow to the back of my head has done more damage than I thought. Dixon sighs.

  ‘I’ll miss that kid,’ he says. ‘Still, with two million dollars, I should be able to set myself up nicely. There are plenty of countries where two million will keep you in considerable luxury for the rest of your days. Who knows? Maybe I’ll meet some nice woman, have kids of my own. They say it’s never too late.’

  I don’t say anything.

  ‘Nearly time to go, Jamie,’ says Dixon. ‘I will keep my word. It will take me a couple of hours to get to where I need to be. Then I’ll ring G
ardner personally, tell him how to get here and release the two of you. There’s no point shouting, by the way, once I’m gone, though feel free if you want. This place is very isolated. Belongs to a guy I put behind bars, actually. He used it to make crystal meth and you need isolation so no one picks up on the chemical fumes. Anyway, Gardner should get here within three hours.’ Dixon glances at his watch. ‘Another hour back to yours. You should be home by, oh, six-thirty at the latest. And then I really hope you can put all this behind you and get on with your lives. You’re decent folks. Pity about your other sister, mind.’

  I don’t say anything.

  ‘I’ve enjoyed our games, Jamie,’ he says. ‘You should know that. And thanks for the lesson on game theory. I’d never heard of it until you told me. All that stuff about being busy when I first rang – well, then it fell into place. A tactic to throw me off. Hats off to you, kid. It worked. I thought, what the hell does he mean, “I’m too busy”? That was good. Not good enough, of course. But then you had no way of knowing that you were confiding in the wrong person. Hey, Phoebe.’

  My sister is back, a mug in her hand. She has a chocolate biscuit in her mouth and there are smudges around her lips. She sits next to Dixon, swings her legs again.

  ‘No problem with the kettle then?’ he asks.

  ‘I used the microwave, Uncle Dixon,’ she says. ‘It heats things up much more than a kettle. In fact, it gets water up to way past boiling point if you leave it on long enough. We learned that at school.’

  A flash of confusion runs across Dixon’s face but it doesn’t stay there long. Phoebe swivels in her chair and flings the contents of her mug into his face. It takes a second or two before he screams.

  CHAPTER 29

  I’m too stunned to react. Seconds seem to slow. Dixon gets up from his chair and claws at his face. The scream, abrupt and high-pitched to start with, modulates into a low keening. He staggers to the side, drops a hand, reaches behind his back, fumbles for something. My mind processes the information sluggishly. Phoebe is shouting but I can’t make out the words. I realise I am standing, though I can’t remember moving. Dixon’s hand fastens on something. The polished butt of the gun. My gun. He starts to pull it free of his waistband. For a brief moment, I remember his habit of hitching his trousers and it all seems so absurd, a farce. Then time starts to move properly again and I know I have to act.

  I try to move but forget my feet are bound and lurch into the table. It crashes over onto Dixon’s chair on the other side, but I remain standing. I see his hand withdrawing from his belt, the gun’s barrel snaking out. I hop. Even now, I am aware of how fantastical this is. He is seconds from pointing a gun at me and I’m doing an impersonation of a fucking kangaroo. It’s likely that I won’t get to him before he starts firing. True, with boiling liquid in his face it’s doubtful he will be able to aim, but it’s a small room and the odds are good he will hit one of us. Why did Phoebe do that? We were moments from being left alone. Why?

  It takes three hops to get to him, and by some miracle, I do not fall. But I am on the point of falling when I hit him, so my head is lowered and I crash into his chest. Despite his large gut, the point of contact is bony and I feel a surge of pain run through my skull. We smash into the wall and slide to the floor. I notice that his grip on the gun has not been shaken. I try to get my hands on the weapon, but the cable ties dig into my flesh and my arms are wedged somewhere between our two bodies. Dixon is grunting, his face centimetres from mine. I see that his skin is inflamed and already starting to blister. But, despite his injuries, he is strong, and I only have my body weight to keep him pinned. It will not be enough.

  I arch back and then head-butt him with all the force I can muster. I read somewhere that you should aim for the bridge of the nose with your forehead. But we are thrashing around and I can’t be accurate so I go for brute force. Something cracks and I have to fight hard not to vomit or pass out from the pain. When I open my eyes it’s difficult to focus but I see a wreck where Dixon’s nose used to be. It is bent to the side and blood covers his mouth and cheeks. His eyes flutter back in their sockets and his strength, for the moment at least, has gone. He lies beneath me, inert. I struggle to move my head to one side and when I shout it sounds strange and tinny in my ears.

  ‘Phoebe, get the gun. Be careful.’

  She moves into my field of vision and I watch as she bends Dixon’s fingers back, prises the gun from his hand.

  ‘Now get me loose,’ I say. ‘Smash the glass that was on the table. Cut these ties.’

  She doesn’t say anything but I see her move. I desperately want to close my eyes and rest but already Dixon is starting to struggle again. There is a sound of smashing. ‘Be careful,’ I call out, but there is no reply. Then I see her, a shard of broken glass in her fingers, and she is trying to get my hands out from between our bodies.

  ‘Do my feet first,’ I say, and she disappears from sight. I hear a scraping sound and suddenly my feet are free. I kneel up on Dixon’s chest, one knee across his throat, and hold my hands out to Phoebe. ‘Quickly,’ I say. She saws at the tie, but it’s fastened very tightly and there is little room to work. I feel a sharp pain in my wrist and blood blossoms. Phoebe stops.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘Keep going.’

  She obeys, her face twisted in concentration. More blood is spilled but so much of me is hurting that I barely notice. And then my hands are free. I can hardly work my fingers because they’re so numb. Dixon is moving.

  ‘Give me the gun, Phoebe,’ I say, and she presses it into my hand. I almost drop it. The safety, I notice, is off. I get to my feet and my legs only just support me. I step back a couple of metres and watch Dixon twitch, one hand pushing against the floor as he tries to lift himself into a sitting position. I hold the gun in both hands and aim the barrel at his chest. I remember all the times I’d vowed I would kill the guy who had taken Phoebe. That I could empty the chamber then reload and do it all again. But I don’t feel like that now. His face is a mess, red and ruined. But I also know he is not finished, and that if he is able to get to his feet, somehow get the gun back, then this time there would be no hope of salvation, no chance to wait for the cavalry to arrive. This time he would kill us.

  So I shoot him in the foot.

  I try to shoot him in the foot, but my aim is not good and I smash up his ankle instead. It dissolves into a mass of blood and bone splinters and the sound makes my head throb so much I can barely see. I think I hear Phoebe scream. Or it might have been Dixon.

  ‘I need something to tie him up with, Phoebe,’ I say. ‘Can you find anything?’

  I see her leave the room out of the corner of my eye, but I don’t let my gaze move from Dixon. He’s not struggling anymore. He is slumped and seems unconscious, but I can’t trust my eyes. I have the feeling that if I was to stop concentrating, if I was to flick my gaze away for even an instant, he would rise up from the ground and have his hands around my throat, like in some bad thriller. So I watch and wait for Phoebe to return.

  She comes back with a pack of cable ties. The pack has already been opened, presumably for my feet and wrists. I take a couple and move carefully over to Dixon’s body. I put out a foot and nudge him, but he doesn’t respond. I back away until I’m at Phoebe’s side.

  ‘I want you to take the gun, Phoebe,’ I say. ‘Hold it in both hands and move around to the side. Keep it aimed at his legs. I’m going to turn him over so I can tie up his hands behind his back. If he so much as moves, I want you to press the trigger, okay? Don’t think, just fire. Can you do that?’

  She nods, but her eyes are wide. I position the gun in her hands, which actually shake less than mine did. Then I squat beside Dixon’s body and push him over. For a moment his arms get caught and I have to manhandle him to get both hands behind his back, but I manage. I use two ties and ratchet them as tight as I can.

  ‘He has house keys in his pocket,’ says Phoebe. It’s the first time she’s spoken since this began.
‘We need them to get out.’

  I put my hand into Dixon’s trouser pocket, find the keys and pull them out. He doesn’t move and I step back. Sweat drips from my forehead. I think about binding his feet but his shattered ankle makes it unnecessary. I take the gun from Phoebe’s hand. For the first time I feel the beginnings of relaxation.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ says Phoebe. ‘Now, Jamie. Please. Before he wakes up.’

  I nod, but I don’t move my eyes away from Dixon’s body. Phoebe takes the keys from me and I pick up the backpack. We leave the room and I close the door. Phoebe locks it. And then, suddenly, we are running up stairs, through another door, down a brown, dank corridor and out into sunshine. It’s like a blow between my eyes and I stop for a moment, blinking. There is nothing in front of me except trees and an over-arching sky. Phoebe grabs my arm.

  ‘C’mon, Jamie,’ she says. ‘Let’s go.’

  I hitch the pack over my shoulder and we run away from the house. I turn back. The place is old, almost ruined. Some windows are missing and those that remain are cracked. Phoebe and I step out through a broken gate and onto a rutted track. It leads in one direction only. We walk. Only later do I realise that Dixon’s car must be somewhere. But I don’t see it and even if I had there’s no way I’d go back into the shack to find car keys.

  We walk in silence for half an hour before we come out onto a small bitumen road. It’s extremely narrow and it seems unlikely we will encounter any traffic. There are no signs telling us whether we should turn right or left. Phoebe turns left and I follow. Up to this moment, I have not trusted myself to speak. And no words seem adequate for the situation, anyway. But the longer we say nothing the more unnerving I find it.

  ‘We made it, Phoebe,’ I say, as if to prove the inadequacy of words.

  ‘Yes,’ she says. She doesn’t look at me.

  ‘Why did you do that?’ I splutter. I don’t want recriminations, but I can’t help myself. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Phoebe. You were brilliant back there. But why do that with the drink when he was about to leave? Was it to protect Summer’s money? Because if it was, that was dumb and you know it.’