by S. J. Morgan
Mum’s crying, and Daniella is quaking beside her. Dad is standing tall though, focussed on me, like he’s trying to send telepathic messages. But if he is, I can’t hear them.
The headlights pick out escaped belongings from the van – they’re scattered around us all, half-hidden: the hotel bill; barley sugars; a packet of tissues; Daniella’s bag.
‘Please. Just take Sindy back with you,’ I say, breathless. ‘This can all be finished.’
He chuckles to himself. ‘I’ll decide when it’s finished, pretty boy. And as for Sindy, there’s no taking her back: she’s been with me all along.’ He breathes out another laugh. ‘Did you actually think you were running the show?’
I shake my head: it’s true, I never did.
‘You were this close,’ he says, like he’s crushing an ant between his fingers. ‘You imported the goods, sorted out the paperwork – made a decent job of it too. Sindy got to the motherland: our angel, given wings. But then…’
I hold my breath as he pauses. I take in the greying stubble on his chin, the dried saliva at the corners of his mouth, those jabbing, sharp cheekbones, so much like Sindy’s. He’s small, weedy yet he’s looming over me like he’s a fucking giant.
‘You had to take out one of our own, didn’t you? Be a goddamn hero.’
‘I didn’t!’
He twists my arm further. ‘Fuck off. You sayin’ Minto died of natural causes?’
‘I didn’t pull the trigger.’
I can hear Mum sobbing and it makes me doubt my own sanity. She’s terrified and I’m standing here, arguing the toss with a violent psycho.
‘See? You just can’t seem to tell the truth, can you, Alec? Even though your life depends on it. And theirs.’ He sweeps a hand towards them. They’re close enough for me to see their faces; watch their fingers clutch onto one another’s.
‘I didn’t shoot Minto!’ I’m almost crying the words into his face. ‘It wasn’t me.’
His eyes trace mine. ‘We have surveillance up there at the clubhouse. Didn’t know that, did ya?’ He eases the sharp point of the blade upwards, so it just grazes my skin; enough for me to feel the sharp pain and the wetness as blood leaks out.
He stands on tiptoe so he can get even closer – it’s like he wants to crawl inside my face and eat me alive. ‘Didn’t pull the trigger? Are you sure, sunshine?’
‘I didn’t!’
‘Yes, you fucking did,’ he whispers, ‘I saw it with my own eyes.’ He stands still, studying me long and hard. ‘Bang! Bang!’ he yells in my face.
I jump, just as I’m meant to, and a bead of his spit lands on my skin.
‘There was no mercy on your part,’ he says. ‘You pulled the trigger, you wanted him dead. There were just no bullets.’
He takes a step back, easing the knife away from my chin; enough to allow me to swallow. He glances over to the others and raises his voice. ‘And the rest of you. You got this boy’s trigger-happy finger to thank for what’s about to happen to you.’
‘No,’ I plead. ‘No. This is just between you and me; they won’t say anything, I promise.’
He looks at me and laughs. ‘You just don’t get it, do you, son? This, right here, is what loyalty means. Sticking together – through the good times and the bad.’ He looks over to Dad. ‘You appreciate it, don’t ya, Jimmy-boy, you old seadog. All for one and one for all.’
Dad keeps his eyes away.
Sindy’s dad leans into me: ‘Loyalty forever; whatever. Get it? That’s the truth we live by. That’s the truth our Sindy lives by.’
We’re moments away now, I can feel it. My legs can barely keep me up. He’ll give the nod and Sindy will pop us all from where she’s standing.
Bile rises in my throat. I hear Daniella make a weird, high-pitched sound and I’m afraid if she doesn’t shut her mouth, she’s going to be first to go. I slide my eyes to her but she’s breathing hard and staring at something on the ground near Sindy’s leg. Our scattered junk is there, but I see nothing else.
‘Ready for your close-up, lad?’ I hear his fingers squeak as he tightens his grip on the knife handle.
I twist and squirm as he grabs me and while he struggles to keep hold, I push and pull while he squeezes my body.
There’s a strangled yelp from Daniella, and we freeze as she leaps back. I don’t understand what’s happening. There’s terror on her face and she’s still staring at the ground near Sindy. For a second, I actually believe her.
Sindy screeches the moment she spots it: a long, dark shape half-hidden in the leaves beside her. Her body contorts and she’s wailing, crying, almost frothing at the mouth. We’re mesmerised, all of us staring, horrified, until Daniella body-slams her.
Something seems to jolt inside me and before those two even hit the ground, I’ve twisted away from the knife and grabbed the skinny hand that’s holding it.
I force my leg around his then scrape, jab and kick at his calf with the heel of my boot until I throw him off-balance. He’s not giving an inch, though: as he goes over, he pulls me right down with him.
I hear Daniella scream my name as fingers grab at my face, pinch my skin. Sinewy arms squeeze me, and nails scrape, hard, down my cheek, slicing it open like a peach. I’m holding up my hands, trying to protect my face when I’m scooped up then slammed onto my back.
I gasp for breath but a hand lands on my throat. He could finish me now: he has the knife and I’m helpless. But this – this moment – is what he’s been waiting for: bare hands, face to face combat. He’s got no appetite for an easy kill. He wants to watch me suffer; eke out every sliver of pain. This is his white-hot hatred – the rage that keeps on raging. He pushes, pushes; every ounce of his weight bearing down on me, all his fury and focus directed at snuffing out this weakening pulse. I can’t swallow, can’t move. My windpipe is a hairbreadth from snapping. I’m gasping for air, desperate to breathe. It feels like my insides are imploding. I sense movement, hear voices; separate, together, and I wonder if it’s all in my head because this is it; I’m done. It’s over.
A single shot. The echoes of it seem to punch through my body and, for a second, I’m back in the outback, at that clubhouse. I’m looking down at Minto, at the blood pooling under his head. My insides have turned to mush, and I hear crying but don’t realise it’s me till I feel big fat tears running down my cheeks. I wipe them away and slide my eyes to the pair of feet standing right beside me. And that’s when I know: I finally see who’s holding the gun.
Chapter 56
Late January 1984 – Gosport, England
There’s been a sprinkling of snow. Nothing to compare with the heavy falls we had in Wales last year, but it’s started to settle and it gives this little place a kind of wintry appeal. A sharp wind follows us as we walk from the boat ramp and head towards the main town.
There’s not much here, any guidebook will tell you that. We’re only a four-minute ferry ride from Portsmouth, but it feels unmistakeably quieter this side; safer. There are no dockyard police and no landmarks; historic ships and hovercrafts are on the other side of the water. There’s barely any reason for strangers to come here.
High Street snakes towards the harbour like a pointing finger and we’re at the very tip. As we walk to the town, we’re hunkered down in our coats, with scarves around our faces and hats pulled down. We must be barely visible in the late afternoon gloom. Or so we hope.
We haven’t been brave enough to venture far yet, but we stayed out for hours today. It’s a relief to return here, to ‘our’ side, though. There’s a fish and chip restaurant over the road and without discussion, we head towards it.
It looks warm, inviting and, positioned where it is on a sharp curve in the road, it allows a full view of the surroundings, like our very own sweep of surveillance.
We’re ruddy-cheeked as we peel off our coats in the lobby. We’re shown to a table, bang-slap in the middle of a huge bay window. It’s feels like a goldfish bowl but who’s to say which side of it we�
�re on.
This part of the world is Dad’s old stomping ground. The dockyard is where he spent much of his time when he was on shore, and it’s where he did his training, years ago. According to Mum, we almost came here to live. In an alternative reality, this is where I grew up: I’d have had a life where I never met Daniella, and where I was untouched by Minto and Sindy.
Daniella reaches across and touches my cheek, like she can read my mind. It’s taken a while, but she and I are finding our even-keel again. I don’t quietly shut her out these days, and she’s learnt how to handle the more fragile version of me.
The waitress brings us menus and points out the specials board. She has a lilting voice and I’m sure I can pick out the subtle strains of a Welsh accent in the rhythm of her speech. It makes me wish we’d gone somewhere else.
‘They do scampi here, love,’ Mum says, leaning across to me.
‘I need a drink first.’
Mum says nothing at first and concentrates on her food choices. ‘It’d do you good to eat something before you start on the beer,’ she says finally, unable to resist. And none of the others disagree with her. It’s like a silent intervention.
Dad’s next to me, facing the big window; his hands on the table, one on top of the other, like he’s hiding an ace. Mum’s opposite him, a thick cardigan around her shoulders.
I look outside and watch the squat green ferry by the pontoon across the road. Further round are the lights of the main harbour entrance with the open sea beyond. Gateway to Europe; another big tick for our temporary home.
It’s starting to rain now; icy droplets blow into the faces of the late shoppers as they dash across the road. Inside, it gets busier as a few of them come in to escape the weather.
I’m more than ready with my drink order, but the waitress seems rushed, weaving between tables. Finally, she comes over to us, but my desperate thirst doesn’t seem to bother her. ‘Are either of you Mr Colbeck?’ she says, looking between me and Dad. ‘There’s an urgent call.’
I stare back at her, my guts giving a squeeze at hearing that name again.
‘No, sorry,’ Mum says, brightly.
The waitress continues her search, but she’s already ruined my appetite. Every time those memories start to lose their sharpness, something happens to bring them right back into focus again.
‘You all right?’ Daniella says to me.
‘Just that name,’ I mumble. ‘It’s...nothing.’
I twist in my seat, looking for a different server. I’m even more desperate for that drink now: I haven’t heard the Colbeck name since Mt Isa.
I’ve seen the psychologist twice and he’s confirmed that Dad’s tinpot diagnosis of PTSD is probably correct. Having a label – understanding what it is – does nothing to help, though. I want there to be pills; something I can slip under my tongue to melt away the pain and the visions. But there’s nothing, it seems, beyond talk and time.
A waiter arrives at last and we put in an order: tea for three, beer for one.
‘Did anyone remember to check the timer on the central heating?’ Mum says, looking outside. ‘I don’t want to go back to a freezing cold home.’
Home is exactly what it isn’t, but it is our safe haven for now; our port in a storm. It’s out of the main town, near some old abandoned fort. It’s a bog-standard house on a bog-standard street – a turn of the century mid-terrace; tiny from the outside, big on the inside. It doesn’t even have a front garden for us to tend and it’s reassuringly unnoticeable. We blend into that place as seamlessly as the cladding on the walls.
Today’s the first time we’ve been out together, the four of us. We all-but barricaded our front door when we first moved in, but necessities dictate – and now, Daniella and I have ventured out for appointments; and Mum and Dad have made it as far as the post restante in town.
I don’t know how Daniella has coped with any of this. While I’ve had Mum and Dad to share the load, Daniella’s had none of the same treatment from her folks. She’s had to volley excuses; pretend all’s well when nothing is; toss them lies about exiting her course. They don’t understand why her life has veered so far off-piste, but what they do know is, it’s down to me. If I was the antithesis of a decent boyfriend before, I must be the devil incarnate by now.
I find Daniella’s hand beneath the table. It’s smooth, warm, familiar and I stroke her soft skin with my thumb. I never stop being glad she’s here and thankful I found her.
Had it not been for Daniella – for that pico-second of audacity; those moments of mettle and distraction – none of us would be sitting here like this, tossing up between scampi and saveloys. Without her, Dad couldn’t have grabbed the gun and the four of us would be in shallow graves, rotting in bushland, somewhere north of Sydney.
December 1983 – Sydney, Australia
Something tugged, hard, on my arm and there was a slip and slither as a weight slid from my chest. There were voices around me, movement in the darkness. I blinked, turned my head and saw that rage-addled face again, but the eyes were shut now, the rage gone. My own eyelids felt heavy, as if they were being weighed down. I tried to keep them open, but they seemed to close of their own accord.
‘Alexander?’ Dad’s voice came from just above me. ‘Alexander? Come on. We have to hurry.’ The words had barely registered before I felt his big hands slide under my shoulders, forcing me upright.
I put my fingers to my throat, certain I’d find a knife there.
‘You’re okay,’ Dad said.
I sure as hell didn’t feel it.
Mum and Daniella were crouched beside me. ‘Alec? Are you awake?’ Daniella said. ‘You’re drifting in and out.’ I could barely see their faces as they stroked my hair, rubbed my arms, planted kisses.
Dad was in a different mental space. His eyes blinked into the blackness. ‘We need to hurry. We can’t risk anyone finding us.’
‘Where’s the van?’ I whispered, looking around.
‘Over there,’ Daniella said. ‘I turned off the lights so we wouldn’t be spotted from the road.’
I had to push through the pain in my throat to get answers. ‘And Sindy?’
‘She’s locked in the van,’ Mum told me. There was a pause as she straightened up and craned her neck. I heard her suck in a panicked breath. ‘Oh my God! No! The door’s open.’
Daniella shot to her feet and raced over. ‘She’s gone!’ she shouted back at us. ‘And so’s her purse!’
Mum clutched her throat. ‘Oh, lord!’
Daniella ran back to us, resting her hands above her knees as she tried to catch her breath. ‘That means she has money, passport. We’ll have to go after her: she can’t be f –.’
‘No,’ Dad said, quietly. ‘Just leave her.’
‘Leave her?’
‘We have the gun and the knife. We have the van keys.’ He gave a shrug. ‘What harm can she do now?’
I winced as the words spilled from his mouth.
‘But she’s out there,’ Daniella persisted. ‘We might be close to where they were taking us.’ She lowered her voice, as if she was afraid someone might already be listening. ‘What if we were being driven to a meeting point? With others from the gang.’ She looked around at us. ‘Sindy could lead them back to us.’
I felt the ground tilt as she said it, and everything seemed to collapse inside me. Was I ever going to wake up from this nightmare?
‘All the more reason to hurry,’ Dad said, helping me to my feet. ‘According to the map, there’s a river close by. We can be quick. We’ll dispose of the weapons and the body there. And any bloodied clothes. Agreed?’
I felt my eyes blink slowly back at him. Did he really just say that?
‘And we need to get rid of Sindy’s suitcase.’
He was thinking, thinking the whole time, always one step ahead, while my brain and my body had turned to jelly.
‘Alexander, come on,’ Dad said, giving me a shake. ‘We have to keep moving. Take your T-shirt off. G
et fresh clothes out of your case. Clean trousers; clean everything. You’ll have to wash yourself in the river too. Come on.’
Direct orders were exactly what I needed. The rat-tat-tat of bullet points; the certainty of straplines.
He was right, too: the river was down a slope, just beyond the van. It was wide, dark, quiet but, in amongst the trees, I could pick out lights, hints at civilisation. I didn’t know if they were a comfort or a menace.
The water felt icy as I scooped it over my head and body. I gave a quick rub of my face and hands but every noise, every tree rustle had my heart thumping and I just wanted to get out of there. I used the sleeve of my old shirt to dry myself then tugged on the new one.
I scrambled back up the slope and could pick out the silhouette of Dad with his torch. Looked like he’d put all the things for the river together, and now he was with Mum and Daniella, checking the ground for our lost belongings. He was fast, smooth, efficient, on a kind of autopilot setting. This was his forte, I realised; dealing with complex, dirty, messy life. Who would’ve ever guessed?
It was left to me and Dad to cover the body. We used the oil-stained blanket from the van, and, as we covered him, I was careful to avoid looking at that face. The blanket made it bearable: disposing of an anonymous package was one thing but seeing a face disappear beneath the water was another.
Mum and Daniella came over to us, dragging Sindy’s suitcase along for its first and final outing.
‘We need to get this done efficiently,’ Dad announced, nodding down. ‘When we get to the water, just do exactly what I tell you, all right? Let’s make this as quick and painless as we can.’
Quick and painless.
A slurry of guilt shifted as he said it. I could barely remember the sound of the gunshot that had dispatched Sindy’s dad but the gut-wrenching cry that accompanied it still echoed in my mind. Sindy’s scream had seemed to come from another place; it was a banshee wail that had an eerie, unearthly quality about it. It was a noise that somehow captured the fierce, instinctive loyalty between them – that base, illogical, primal connection that could never be broken.
