by Cathryn Hein
Like his sons, Fraser was tall and built like a sportsman. He’d rowed and swam at school, played football and cricket, polishing a physique that good genes had already founded and continued to bless him through time. Age had brought lines around his eyes and mouth, and grey to the hair at the edge of his temples and sideburns, but otherwise he exuded robust health. Jack was surprised to find himself thinking he hoped to look as fit at that age.
‘Let’s take some beers outside. I want to hear all you’ve been up to.’
They’d downed a couple of beers when Jack realised he was enjoying himself. The last time he’d been at Fraser’s he’d barely spoken, but he’d been young then, self-conscious and disapproving. Talk seemed to come easier now. He wondered if it was maturity or the confidence that Elsa brought out in him. There was no doubt he was learning to be more accepting, but perhaps he was also becoming his own man.
‘You’ve changed,’ said Fraser, as if he’d read his mind. ‘Grown up. Must be that outback living.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Do you miss it?’
Jack regarded Daisy, sulking in the shade of the fence. ‘Yes and no. Strathroy’s growing on me.’
‘Strathroy …’ Fraser said the name with a shake of his head, his gaze inward. ‘Kate loved that place.’
‘I’m not sure she did that much. She let it get pretty run-down.’
‘Too busy digging for those bloody sapphires.’
‘Yeah.’
‘What a waste.’ Fraser put his bottle down and stared at it. ‘I wanted to marry her. Did you know that?’
Fraser? Marry his mum? Jack found the idea impossible, but he’d always found the idea of Fraser and his mum impossible. Anyway, surely his dad wasn’t the type? But reality was Jack didn’t know him well enough to even guess at what ‘type’ he could be. His opinion was that of a boy, lacking in nuance and tarnished by media and gossip. Dealing with Fraser as a grown man, with an adult’s insight and experience, Jack was beginning to see him differently.
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Asked her countless times. She always turned me down. The way things were I had no choice but to give up. Your grandfather made it clear I wasn’t welcome at Strathroy and Kate hated the idea of living in Melbourne. Reckoned she wouldn’t be able to breathe, but I think it was because she wouldn’t have anything to dig up.’ Fraser smiled wryly, his mouth lifting in one corner in a manner that reminded Jack of himself. ‘That and she didn’t love me. Not enough, anyway.’
Jack had no response to that.
Fraser sighed and picked up his beer, angling it towards Jack, who raised his own beer in a salute. ‘To Kate. Taken from us far too young.’
‘Who was?’ asked Merisa from just inside the doors.
Jack blinked. Jesse and Merisa had snuck upstairs a while back and he hadn’t heard her return.
‘Kate,’ said Fraser. ‘Jack and Jesse’s mum.’
‘Oh. Yes, she was. Sad to lose your mum so young.’ She smiled sympathetically at Jack who didn’t smile back.
Fraser checked his watch and stood with a click of his knees that made him wince. ‘Bloody football knees. The boys will be here soon. I’d better start organising a few things.’
‘I’ll help,’ said Merisa, but Fraser shooed her away. ‘You go back to Jesse. Jack and I can handle it.’
Instead of heading upstairs, Merisa hung around the lounge, flicking through music channels on the television. Jack couldn’t help his eyes narrowing. Why wasn’t she with Jesse? He couldn’t imagine Elsa acting like this.
‘You know much about her?’ he asked his dad quietly. The beers and friendly chat had made him feel strangely protective. Not so much for his dad, who could take care of himself, but for his brother.
Fraser understood immediately what he meant. ‘She checks out.’ He pulled a large tray of steaks from the fridge and set it on top of the bench. ‘Jesse is mad for her.’
‘I noticed.’
They exchanged a smile. Jesse had dragged Merisa upstairs to his room as soon as Jack and Fraser were settled outside, using the excuse that they’d want to catch up, when clearly all he’d wanted was Merisa naked.
‘What about you? Got yourself a girl?’
‘Yeah. Name’s Elsa. Owns a hairdressing salon in Wirralong.’
‘You’ll have to bring her to visit one day.’
Jack made a noise that could have meant anything.
Fraser’s voice dropped even lower. ‘I’m not in the game anymore, Jack.’
Jack shook his head. He didn’t want to know.
‘It’s the truth.’ Fraser glanced at Merisa. She seemed strangely still, then she flicked a page of the magazine and continued to read. A fine line formed between his brows. ‘We’ll talk another time.’
Fraser’s mates started arriving at six. They were all men in their fifties, dressed in casual designer gear and looking every inch the successful middle-class male. Fraser introduced Jack with pride, his arm slung around his son’s shoulders, bragging about chips off the old block and taking with good humour the banter that Jack and Jesse’s looks must have come from their mother.
The beers Jack had drunk made him less reticent than normal. He was surprised to find himself liking most of the men. They were smart, articulate and from a range of professions. If any were in on Fraser’s old game, Jack couldn’t tell. One imported Scandinavian designer furniture. Another ran a private accountancy firm. The eldest, a silver-haired man closer to sixty than fifty, proved to be a solicitor. The connection, he learned, was school. Fraser’s ‘boys’ were old Grammar mates, men who’d stuck with each other through thick and thin. Their loyalty spoke of yet another side to his dad that Jack had never known.
Merisa flitted from group to group, passing around canapes, wine and beers. She’d changed into a low-cut top that showed off her impressive cleavage and attracted surreptitious, admiring glances from the men.
‘Where are their wives?’ asked Jack of Jesse, when it finally dawned on him what was missing.
‘It’s Dad’s boys’ night. No women.’
‘Merisa’s here.’
‘That’s because she’s with me.’ He regarded his girlfriend with hunger. ‘I’ll be taking her upstairs shortly anyway.’
‘You already did that.’
‘Not enough.’
Jack smiled. He felt the same with Elsa.
It was after midnight when Fraser escorted his remaining guest—the Scandinavian importer—to the door. Jack was in the kitchen, stacking the dishwasher. As promised, Jesse had dragged Merisa upstairs after dinner and not returned. Like Jack, Fraser had indulged in beers and red wine, but Elliot, who had to drive, was sober. They were laughing like they were drunk though, amused by the memory of some incident from school.
Their laughter faded as they headed for the front gate. Jack scraped a piece of steak into a plastic bowl for Daisy and set the plate into the dishwasher. Daisy was waiting at the threshold of the cantilevered doors, mouth open in anticipation, although how she could eat any more was a mystery. The dog had been scoffing scraps all night.
As Jack picked up another plate the quiet was split with a screech of car tyres. He paused, listening. The car revved louder. Too loud.
A shard of ice sliced through Jack. He dropped the plate and moved around the bench to stare down the hall to the open front door. There’d been traffic noise filtering into the yard from Beaconsfield Parade all night, but that sounded close. And from the scream of its engine, coming closer. Fast.
Then someone shouted, and the night exploded with noise.
He knew that blast, had heard it growing up, had caused it himself.
Shotgun.
‘Dad!’
He sprinted down the hall, pushing off walls and flinging himself through the door and past the gate.
The street was thick with engine roar. He caught the flare of a car’s brake lights as it reached the corner, then another screech as it hurtled around the bend and vanish
ed.
Someone groaned.
Jack whipped his head left. No one stood in the street. Then his gaze moved down and his heart lurched in horror.
Sprawled on the footpath like collapsed dolls were two men. Around them, shiny like tar and spreading thickly towards the gutter, was a growing pool of blood.
Chapter Seventeen
Yawning widely, Elsa opened the fridge door and scanned the interior for the tub of mango yoghurt she’d been saving.
Sam was on the lounge, spooning cereal into his mouth, gaze hard on the television. Tim was nowhere to be seen.
‘Did you eat my yoghurt?’
‘Huh?’
‘Mango yoghurt. Did you eat it?’
‘Nup. Tim might’ve.’
Elsa slammed the fridge door shut. She adored the twins, but having them home meant no food was safe from their ravenous maws. She tapped the counter then headed for the pantry. Toast it would have to be.
‘Hey, Els,’ said Sam, as Elsa was popping bread into the toaster. ‘You might want to come look at this.’
‘Look at what?’
But Sam was already turning up the sound on the television remote. A female talking head was reading the news, a red band of tickertape feeding headlines below. Elsa heard the name ‘Fraser’ and ‘shooting’ and everything inside her froze.
She walked on zombie legs towards the television. The footage had changed to a suburban street. Police tape flapped around a neat older house with a glossy black door. The camera zoomed to a male reporter.
‘The shooting occurred close to midnight last night. The deceased was on the footpath with another man, when a vehicle approached. Witnesses heard a single blast, believed to be from a shotgun, before the car sped away.’
Elsa backed onto the lounge and sat, arms wrapped around her belly, breathing fast.
‘The deceased has been identified as furniture importer Elliot Davidson. The injured party, businessman Fraser Greene.’
The camera cut to the front of a hospital. Three dark-haired men were shoving their way down a path crowded with reporters. A flinty faced Jack had one arm around his father, the other outstretched to push his way through. Jesse Hargreaves, equally fury-filled, walked on Fraser’s other side. Fraser’s arm was in a sling. His grim face speckled with what looked like bloody pimples.
‘Fraser Greene was released from hospital this morning, accompanied by his two sons, Jack and Jesse Hargreaves, offering no comment. All have been questioned, but an arrest in the shooting has yet to be made. Police believe …’
‘Is that your Jack?’ asked Sam.
Elsa nodded, her focus not leaving Jack’s fatigued, stony face. What the hell had happened?
‘Not good,’ he said.
‘No.’ Then she was up and racing to her room for her phone.
After half an hour of dialling Elsa gave up leaving messages but maintained her assault, hitting the redial button and hanging up the moment the call transferred to his message bank. It was pointless though. Jack’s phone remained stubbornly switched off.
Sunday dragged with cruel monotony. Elsa didn’t leave the house for fear of missing something on the television or Internet. Conjecture was rife, but facts were sparse. A man had been shot at the front of Fraser’s house. Elliot Davidson, a divorced furniture importer from the nearby suburb of Brighton. Fraser had suffered minor injuries during the attack—spray from shotgun pellets and a dislocated collarbone from when he’d thrown himself to the ground. The press speculated that the wrong man had been killed, that the blast had been meant for Fraser. The police stayed silent.
As did Jack.
‘It’ll be okay,’ said Shayna, handing Elsa a glass of wine and kissing the top of her head. It was early evening, and the twins had made themselves scarce in the garage, dragging their dad with them and leaving the house to Elsa’s worry and Shayna’s support and wisdom.
Elsa smiled her thanks. There was nothing to say that they hadn’t already talked through. Worry had worked its sludgy way into her bones, muscles and veins, exhausting her with its weight. The story had been huge, Jack’s face shown multiple times because he was new and unknown. A cleanskin and photogenic novelty to counteract the much-used file footage they had of Fraser. The media salivated. Pundits orated about Fraser’s boys being brought into the fold, while others claimed that Fraser had been distancing himself from his past, and that Jack’s appearance showed a thaw between a father and the eldest son that few remembered he had.
How they knew all these things was anyone’s guess. One thing Elsa understood for certain, it wouldn’t have come from Jack.
It was dark when Jack’s name finally flashed on her phone. Elsa was on her bed, trying to rest. Fear, combined with too much wine and nothing in her stomach had made her woozy, and after a dinner that comprised little more than pushing food around her plate, Elsa had retreated to her room.
She sat up, hand tight around the phone. ‘Jack?’
‘Yeah, it’s me.’
Closing her eyes, Elsa flattened her hand below her throat and inhaled a juddery breath. ‘Oh, thank God. I’ve been so scared. Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine.’ He made a sound that could have been a laugh, if not for its bitter edge. ‘Not hurt, at least. How are you?’
‘Sick with worry for you. For all of you.’
‘We’re okay. Except for the media camped out front. I guess you’ve heard what happened.’
‘Only what’s been reported. That a man was killed during a drive-by at the front of your dad’s and that Fraser was hurt in the attack. He’s okay though, isn’t he? They said his injuries were only minor.’
‘Yeah, he’s all right. Sore but okay.’
‘I’m so sorry, Jack. It must have been awful.’
‘Pretty shit. I’ve been told not to talk about it. Sorry.’
‘Don’t be. You do what you have to. Just know I’m here if you need me.’
‘Jesus, Elsa.’ His voice was ragged and thick with emotion. ‘I don’t know why you’re even talking to me. You must have heard all they’re saying. About Dad. About me and Jesse. Merisa dumped Jesse so fast his head is still spinning.’
‘I’m not Merisa.’ Whoever she was, although Elsa guessed she’d been Jesse’s girlfriend. ‘And I’m not that spineless. You ought to know that by now.’
‘Yeah.’ His voice softened. ‘You’re a regular little lioness.’
Warmed by his words, Elsa let her smile shine through her voice. ‘And don’t you forget it, Jack Hargreaves.’
There was a long pause then Jack sighed, and Elsa could hear a scratchy sound like he was rubbing his face. ‘I don’t know when I’ll be able to call again. Dad’s upset about Elliott and what it might mean, and Jesse is …’ He breathed out heavily. ‘He’s pretty fucked up over Merisa. Dad thinks it’s her that’s spilling her guts to the press, which isn’t helping.’
‘What about you?’
‘Me?’ He made that weird laugh noise again. ‘I’m fucked up too, just trying not to show it.’
Except to her. Elsa’s heart clenched with worry and love for him.
‘I tried to help. To stop the bleeding and do CPR but there was …’ His throat made a dry clicking noise as he swallowed. ‘There was so much blood. And he was all mashed up and—’
A crash sounded in the background, followed by what sounded like a roar.
‘Shit,’ said Jack. ‘Jesse is freaking out again. I gotta go.’
There was no sign-off, just dial tone. Jack had gone.
Elsa whispered an ‘I love you’ into the phone anyway. Then she laid on her side and leaked tears for Jack and the awful trauma he’d suffered and was still enduring, and a few more for herself and the anxiety of what this tragedy might mean for the future.
*
Elsa was trimming a young mum’s hair when Mrs. Brierly walked into Hair Affair. The tears she’d shed on Sunday night for Jack had the small bonus of leaving Elsa so tired she’d fallen asleep easily, and h
ad not woken until her alarm sounded the following morning. A good night’s sleep had done wonders for her fatigued body, but worry over Jack remained.
Serenity had arrived at work early bearing coffee and sugary cream buns from the bakery, and a sympathetic embrace for Elsa. Kindnesses that nearly had Elsa bawling again, until Serenity ordered her to buck up.
‘Today is likely to bring them out, you know that.’ The beautician used a tissue to dab mascara smudges from under Elsa’s eyes, her other hand holding Elsa’s chin. ‘You show weakness and you’ll never hear the end of the I-told-you-sos. So no crying. Not even a snivel, okay?’
‘Yes, mum.’
‘Good. Now eat your bun and drink your coffee, then come up back and we’ll fix your make-up properly.’ Serenity tossed the tissue in the bin and picked up her own coffee. ‘And Elsa?’
‘Yes?’
‘For the record, I don’t think Jack had anything to do with what happened. Wrong place, wrong time.’
‘Thanks.’
She smiled then broke into a broad grin. ‘If you ever get the chance to introduce me to that Jesse, please take it.’ Serenity hung out her tongue. ‘That man is pant-worthy!’
If not for Serenity, Elsa wasn’t sure she’d have been ready for Mrs. Brierly. Not at nine in the morning, but when Elsa saw the old lady framed in the doorway, one hand on her cane, the other gripping a newspaper, she found the strength to regard her benignly.
Without a word, Mrs. Brierly marched to the counter and slapped down the paper, her lips pursed in triumph.
Elsa’s client, who’d been busily Facebooking, looked up from her phone with a frown before turning saucer eyes on Elsa.
Elsa simply smiled at her. ‘Won’t be a moment.’ She strode for the counter. ‘If you’re after an appointment, Mrs. Brierly, I’m afraid I can’t help you. I’m sure you understand why.’
Mrs. Brierly jabbed a sharp nail at the paper’s main photograph. ‘What did I say?’
Elsa ignored the finger jab. She’d seen the picture and headline earlier on a morning television show’s round-up of newspaper front pages. Instead, she put her finger to her bottom lip and regarded the ceiling thoughtfully. ‘Hmm. Let me think. No, sorry, I can’t seem to remember. Mustn’t have been important.’
