A Shot at Freedom (14 page)

Chapter Twenty Four

Brooke

The butchers
’ paper wrapped around the hot chips flapped in the breeze. Brooke grabbed a handful and layered it across her bread, folding it into a sandwich.

“You have not stopped eating since last night,” Tyler laughed.

“I’ve never been more hungry in my life. I can’t fill myself up,” Brooke replied.

Natasha looked smug as she plucked one chip at a time off the pile nibbling it. “Life
ain’t that bad with us is it?”

“Nothing changes Natasha. I’ve got to get to the Whitsundays. It’s my only chance of finding David.”

Foley nudged Tyler, “I see something.” He nodded his head towards a kid sitting on his own on the park bench, looking out over the river. His bag flopped open beside him.

“Go for it.”

Brooke watched Foley saunter over to the kid, and sit down.

“Stupid kid, shouldn’t be skipping school. He’s asking for shit to happen.”

“What’s he doing?” Brooke asked.

Foley held out his hand and the kid reached into his school blazer and pulled out his wallet, handing over some notes.

“Score,” Natasha said.

Foley took the money and shook his hand.

“Does he know him?”

“Unlikely,” Tyler laughed.

When he stood up, Foley pocketed the money. He wandered down the pathway, away from the group.

“Pick everything up. Let’s go,” Tyler instructed.

Brooke rolled up the chips.

Natasha grabbed the bread and her bag.

Tyler loaded up with his bag and Foley’s, hooking the bottle of Coke between his fingers.

Tyler and Natasha were off.

Brooke lugged her bag onto her back and stumbled along behind them.

In the shadows of a clump of jacaranda trees, Foley appeared with a grin, rubbing the cash between greedy fingers. “Sixty bucks.”

“I saw a job for you,” Foley said, nodding over his shoulder. “Back out there.”

“Your head
’s on it today,” Tyler praised, squinting through the trees looking for anyone with money.

“It’s a job for you, Brooke,” Foley said.

“Me?”

“A mother playing with three kids on that playground. See the dark long dark hair? She’s real busy,” Foley said.

“Hmm, extensions, fake tan, false nails,” Natasha said.

“And the purse is lying out there on top of her bag for all the world to see,” Foley said.

“But she’s a mother,” Brooke argued.

“A rich mother.”

“It’s Christmas tomorrow.”

“You are clean cut and no one will look at you twice as you walk by her bag. The rest is up to you,” Tyler advised.

“She’ll have more money in the bank. Guaranteed,” Natasha said.

“It’s for David,” Foley added.

Tyler smirked. “Someone’s gotta have you. You won’t put out for me.”

Brooke dropped her bag. She stepped out from under the trees, fixed her gaze on the prize they’d drawn her attention to and kept walking. Any thoughts she had were swept from her mind. She kept her gaze on the woman, the extensions, the tan and the nails. She was a good mother helping her toddler to climb the ladder to the slide. The other two kids were flying high in competition on the swings.

The purse was a classic Gucci. She swiped it off the bag and kept moving. Her legs felt as if they didn’t belong to her, but they didn’t let her down. She didn’t look back. No one called after her. She disappeared under the trees, threw the purse at Tyler, grabbed her bag and kept walking. It was the only logical thing to do. The hardest part was maintaining a sedate, natural pace.

Natasha fished through the wallet. “Thirty bucks and some change.”

“Fuck,” Tyler said.

She kept fishing, “Hang on there’s a stash at the back.” She pulled out a bundle of notes.

“Fuck,” Tyler and Foley swore.

Natasha chucked the purse into the bin.

Brooke looked over the rim of the bin. The purse was open, the kids’ faces grinned up at her, their photo with Santa.

“Leave it,” Tyler said.

“It’s a Gucci,” Brooke replied.

Tyler raised his eyebrows at her.

“Let’s at least leave it where she will find it.”

He took her by the elbow and drew her away
. “Keep walking.”

“I’m going to be sick. Let’s give it all back.”

“She was rich, Brooke. And who leaves their bag open like that with their purse perched on top if they don’t want it taken?”

“David hates crime,” Brooke said quietly.

“David, David, David,” Foley ranted, twisting his face as though the name tasted like lemon. “If he really cared he’d be here helping you get where you want to go.”

Natasha clasped Foley’s hand in hers and lifted the back of it to her lips, kissing him. They exchanged a knowing look.

“It’s complicated,” Brooke murmured, more to herself than anyone else.

*
**

The unit was filled with smoke. Again Brooke found herself in a circle. She tried to sit back, but Tyler pulled her close to him.

“Come to the bathroom with me,” he whispered.

“No.”

“Believe me, you want to,” Tyler said.

He took her hand. She went willingly.

He closed the door. The noise outside faded to nothing. Her eyes didn’t leave his.

He slapped cash onto the vanity. “It’s yours.”

She went to pick it up.

He pulled her to him. “For David. If he’s important to you. You can have the cash, if you help me out.” He took her hand and pushed it to his crotch. “I’ll help you book a flight.”

“Please.”

“Do you really want to find David?”

She nodded.

“I’ll get you there.”

Brooke stared at the way he massaged her hand against himself. He unzipped his jeans and shoved her hand inside. It took every bit of restraint she had not to bury her fingers in and wrap them around the tenderest part and squeeze until he screamed.

“It’s not the money you stole,” he said.

“I don’t know why I listened to you.”

“Because you want David. You want him so bad, you’ll do anything to get to him. You know I have it in me to get you to him. And once you are together you can figure it all out.” He helped her position her fingers and palm. “No one needs to know but you and me how much you want to get to him, just what you are prepared to do.”

She met his gaze, and co-operated.

“I will show you how I like it and maybe one day, your new skills can be used on David. You can impress him. It’s all about experience.”

Brooke closed her eyes.

“That’s right sweetie, pretend you’re with him.” Tyler’s hand wrapped around the hair at the back of her neck and drew her head onto his shoulder. “Get nice and close. I’ll show you how it’s done.”

***

Brooke’s mobile vibrated in her pocket. She jumped up from the circle quickly, excusing herself, just as the third bong was coming around. Her first thought was of David. But it wasn’t him. It was the shelter.

She cleared her throat before she answered, as though it would make her feel less bent, more professional, “Hellllooww.”

“Brooke?”

“Josie?”

“Are you al
l right?”

“No I messed up. I’m a mess up.”

“We got a call for you about a job.”

“Where?”

“Come here and we’ll talk about it. We don’t do this usually, call people back I mean on suspension, but it’s a job Brooke and it’s your future.”

“That sounds very reasonable.”

“Huh? Yes it does. Ah are you with the others?”

“I had no choice but to
—”

“I know you didn’t.”

“Why so nice now?”

“Brooke, straighten up and get back here, we’ve got a bit to sort out.”

“I’m straight.”

“Yeah….
Remember, Harville is the tough one. You’ve got to be together enough to get by him.”

“It wasn’t what it looked like in that room that night. I needed your help.”

The line buzzed between them.

“Josie? Are you there?”

Josie cleared her throat. “Yeah. I’m here. We need to talk. Just get back here.”

Chapter Twenty Five

David

There was no way of measuring how much David had had to drink when Garth kept topping him up. With the bar open, he kept out of sight, cleaning supply rooms and fridges. By the time his cheeks had numbed out, and the tension in his body dissolved, everything felt like it was going to work out. He lived for every mouthful.

When the doors to the bar closed, he could step out from cleaning rooms behind the kitchen and clean the wide open bar area. A full glass was always within reach, scrubbing toilets, polishing wood, mopping floors.

Drunken solitude.

***

Clanging iron on wood echoed in the airless room. David stirred, but didn’t bother opening his eyes. He wiped saliva off his chin and rolled over.

The room faded away.

He slipped into a dream.

A loud thump at the door woke him.  The door splintered. The hinges gave way before the lock. He threw his pillow and scrambled up, swaying, still drunk. Strange faces gawked at him, and the room erupted. They collapsed the bed, slashing the mattress, emptying his duffle bag and finding the only stash of money he had. To the pulse of cheering and insults, they yanked him out the door. A booted foot kicked him in the back of his knee. He buckled, crashing into the wall. A dread-like sickness spread through his lower gut.

“Darbie,” David pleaded, knowing he wouldn’t be there to hear him.

Wild laughter reverberated around him. A couple of them poked him out into the open bar with iron bars. The shop-fronts in the main street cast eerie green and purple light over the faces.

“Get up here where we can see ya,” Chas said, belting a rickety two-seater table.

The bars jabbed David in the back. It was all beginning to make sense. Chas had come to get him, with his buddies. They were armed and he had nothing, nothing but his mind, still drunk and fuzzy.

David gave himself to the fight, weak compliance. Unsteady as he was, he held the edges of the table.

“Allow me,
mate,” Chas said, offering him a chair with a gentlemanly gesture.

David clambered onto the table without help. He squatted, gripping the sides, until iron bars beat at his white fingers, forcing him to let go. He stood, balancing with knees slightly bent.

A noose swung down and grazed his cheek. He jerked back from it, the table tipping, forcing him to squat.

Loud jeering ricocheted around the bar.

David used every bit of dignity he had to regain his balance and stand again.

“That’s it. Right level with his face there,” Chas instructed.

One of them was in the rafters, tying the rope firm. David looked past the crowd of raging faces at the glinting bottles behind the bar. It occurred to him that it had been a while since he imagined his death. Intoxication had been his angel.

Glasses smashed around the base of the table, dragging his attention back. Large shards of glass - stakes ready to draw blood, if he fell.

“You have a choice,” Chas bellowed, holding up a full bottle of rum before taking a swig himself. “Don’t let anyone say I don’t believe in human rights. Everyone can choose their fate.”

Lusty laughter pummel
led David’s sinking heart.

“Hang yourself, or we will beat you senseless with these iron bars.”

Either way, I’m going to die
, David thought, imagining his limp body swinging like a slowing pendulum, until his clock stopped, and his time on Earth was complete.

“Make a choice,” someone shouted.

“Chas,” someone called from the doorway to the back halls. “Found this.”

Something metallic spun through the air, over the heads of several of the guys. It clattered to the floor clearing a space. They all looked down at it, the room silent.

Chas bent down to pick it up. “This yours?” he asked holding it with his thumb and forefinger as though it would infect him. “Are there any bullets in it?”

David nodded, wading through the confused barrel of his mind, trying to remember how many bullets were fired the night he left home. He’d hidden it under the fake bottom of the bag, not wanting to touch it or think about it.

“How many?” Chas asked.

“I don’t know. A couple maybe. Or it might be empty.”

Chas cocked the gun and pointed it at David’s feet.

David readied himself to jump, watching for any sign of movement in Chas’ fingers.

Chas slowly raised his aim, stepping forward, just shy of the ring of broken glass. The gun was aimed at David’s crotch.

“BANG!” Someone shouted from behind.

All tension inside David snapped like a rubber band. Warm urine soaked his shorts. A wet patch clung to his leg, rivulets streaming down his leg.

Peals of laughter rolled through the room. Guys were holding each other up.

Chas smiled, joy lighting his eyes. He lowered the gun and stuck it in his jeans pocket, covering it with his shirt.

David bowed his head. Broken glass refracted coloured street lights.

“That was worth the trip over here,” Chas said, raising his voice above the humour.

The puddle at David’s feet spread with each jar of the table. 

The first blow thudded across his back, jolting him off balance. He grasped the table edge, dropping to all fours.  They pounded his thighs and backside, shoving him forward. Fear shuddered through him. He couldn’t hold on. He curled up tight, protecting his head with bent arms. Snap! His right wrist buckled in broken agony against the table top. Weakness seethed to his elbow. His body flopped to the glassy floor, toppling the table on to him. Fractured glass stabbed his skin, slicing his lower back. With each movement, pain sent fiery spears into the depths of him. He froze. The pain stopped. He tasted blood. He covered his face with his good arm, nerves screaming at a last blow to his shins.    

Scuffling feet sent a spray of glass into his hair. They ran, leaving him enclosed in the stillness and quiet. He couldn’t feel any pain. Alone in his mind, dead in himself, his essence cored out and left in a crumpled heap.

David forced his soul to find his arms and legs. He was slow to sit, his broken wrist limp and useless. Every move triggered nerves. He yanked a huge shard of glass from his lower hip. Blood bubbled under his fingers. His lungs laboured as he stood and shuffled out through the door, leaving it open and swinging in the sea wind.