The Byron Journals (23 page)

Andrew looked up a dark side street. ‘Are you trying to make me nervous? Is this another one of your punishments?'

‘No.'

‘Well, what then?'

‘I just…I mean, I still think you're a dickhead for sleeping with Jade, but I care about you—and I'm worried because I don't think you realise what you're getting yourself into.'

He tried to touch the side of her face, but she flinched, then turned and started walking again. Andrew fell back for a few paces, then caught up.

‘I love you, Heidi,' he said.

She didn't reply. The plastic bags rustled between them in the dark.

The four of them sat down in the hostel courtyard and served dim sims, sweet and sour pork and special fried rice onto plates borrowed from the communal kitchen. Tim told Andrew he'd spoken to Sam and everything was set. At eight he'd meet a guy called Phil at a nearby pub. Phil would escort him to the pick-up and drop him back at the pub afterwards. While Tim talked, Heidi stared at Andrew, her meaning clear:
why are you doing
this?
But Andrew looked away. Somehow, he knew that doing this would make all the difference.

Tim unlocked the bus and Andrew followed him on board. The clatter of drums sounded unusually harsh as Tim pushed them out of the way, tore open a plastic bag and tossed a couple of black sports tracksuits onto the table.

‘Choose one and put it on,' he said.

‘What for?'

‘Drug-runners wear sports tracksuits.'

Andrew picked up a tracksuit top and held it in front of him; he could smell mothballs and body odour. ‘You're joking?'

‘No.'

‘I'm not wearing this.'

Tim looked him up and down. ‘Well, you can't go dressed like that. You look like a bogan on a tropical holiday.'

Andrew frowned at his skinny-leg jeans and floral print T-shirt. ‘No, I don't.'

‘Just shut up and put it on.'

Tim wore Adidas and Andrew wore Kappa. They looked stupid, but Tim seemed pleased with the result— he even affected a swagger on their way back through the streets. Andrew's thoughts drifted to their unfin-ished conversation about Heidi.

‘What were you going to tell me about Heidi?' he said. ‘You know—back in Bondi…when…'

‘When I hit you?'

‘…Yeah.'

‘You went down like a sack of shit, by the way.'

‘That's great, Tim. What about Heidi?'

Tim sighed. ‘Never mind that. Just shut up and get focused.'

When they reached the pub, Tim stopped on the footpath and turned to Andrew.

‘Right. His name's Phil. He's about forty-five or fifty, and he'll supposedly be sitting alone in the back corner. You'll know him when you see him. And if he asks, you're Sam's cousin. Okay?'

‘Okay.'

‘I'll be here waiting for you when you get back.'

Andrew paused. ‘Hey, Tim.'

‘Yeah?'

‘What if something goes wrong?'

Tim shook his head. ‘What could possibly go wrong?'

The pub had a high ceiling and two pool tables. The lone bar worker stacked the fridge, Bon Jovi's ‘Wanted Dead or Alive' played on the jukebox and an elderly woman fed dollar coins into one of the poker machines. The tread of Andrew's sneakers stuck to the floor as he walked towards the back corner. He found Phil where he said he'd be. He had clipped grey hair, washed-out blue eyes and rough, stubby hands. He didn't stand up, just nodded at the seat in front of him and waited for Andrew to sit down.

‘Who you been fighting?' he said.

Andrew touched the bruise and shrugged. ‘Long story.' He was hoping to sound tough, indifferent, but it came out sounding forced.

Phil smiled, drained the last of his beer and pushed back his chair. ‘All right. Let's go.'

Andrew followed him out of the pub and around the corner to a black, late-model Holden Commodore. Phil made a phone call, a few words, and unlocked his car.

‘Jump in,' he said. ‘I've gotta do something before the pick-up.'

The inside of his Commodore smelled of new leather and cleaning chemicals. They cruised inland through the backstreets. Phil drove slowly with soft country music playing on the stereo. After a while, he turned down a side street and pulled to a stop.

‘Stay here,' he said.

He got out of the car and walked up a driveway, looking from side to side. He knocked on the front door with the back of his hand and paced in the muted light, before disappearing into the flat.

Andrew watched shadows moving behind the blinds. Whatever was going on, it didn't look like a friendly transaction. He waited to hear a gunshot and screaming. Should he get out of the car and run while he still had the chance? He was about to do it when Phil stepped onto the porch, stuffed something into his pocket, and closed the door behind him. He surveyed the street as he made his way down the driveway, then again when he started the car.

They pulled around the corner and parked beside a wide, inky-black river. Suburban house lights glittered on the far bank. A couple of guys in beanies passed along the track in front of them and Phil waited until they were gone. There was something menacing about him. He looked around to make sure no one was watching and dug into his pocket. Andrew braced himself for the flash of a blade or the dull thud of a gun. Instead,

Phil pulled out a clean white sock, and from inside it he withdrew a glass pipe. He took out a small zip-lock bag of powdery white crystals, opened it and tapped some into the pipe. He raised it to his mouth and put the lighter beneath it. Thick, white smoke curled inside the glass. He toked and gagged. Toked again, held his breath and closed his eyes. He exhaled and a strong metallic scent filled the car. Andrew tried to hold his breath and pressed the button to lower his window, but the ignition was off. Phil looked sideways at him, turned the key and lowered his window. He tapped more crystals into his pipe and smoked them. He repeated the process a third time before offering the pipe to Andrew who shook his head. Phil shrugged and smoked what was left in the pipe before putting everything back into the sock and stuffing it into his pocket.

They sat in silence for a couple of minutes, the distant lights dancing on the surface of the river and mellow strains of country music playing on the stereo. Andrew remembered what Tim had told him about the ice-heads—smashing each other to pieces—and not remembering a thing about it the next day. He fixed his eyes on the steelworks billowing smoke in the distance and prayed Phil would hurry up and start the car.

Phil caught his gaze and nodded. ‘I worked at those steelworks for thirty fucking years. What a waste of time that was!' He laughed and slapped his thigh. ‘Thirty fucking years! Can you believe that?'

‘Mmm…'

Phil started the Commodore, reversed out of the car park and turned down the road.

‘Where are we going?' Andrew asked, trying to sound casual.

‘I'm taking you to the steelworks.'

‘Shouldn't we get to the pick-up?'

‘We'll get there when we get there.'

He gave Andrew a tour of the steelworks. He slowed beside huge tanks and conveyor belts and pointed out the places he'd nearly died. And the places he'd seen mates die right in front of him. Heavy machinery accidents, explosions, blast-furnace backfires.

‘Everyone working the plant used to take speed,' Phil said. ‘Everyone. And they'd all be drinking and speeding and driving these huge machines. Working like maniacs and doing ridiculous hours. Until Occupational Health and Safety came in and changed everything.

‘A lot of guys got cancer too,' he added. ‘All the fumes…all that toxic shit.'

Andrew thought of the ice Phil had just smoked but kept quiet.

Phil stared at the steelworks and paused for a moment before continuing. ‘I've got a tumour on me brain the size of a fucking golf ball. What do ya think about that?'

Andrew cleared his throat, wondering if it was a trick question. ‘Can the doctors fix it?'

‘They can't operate without killing me, or making me a vegetable. Went through months of radiation treatment, chemotherapy and all that shit. Fucking nightmare that was…then they gave me three months to live.' He laughed. ‘But that was four months ago. The doctor says I've got dangerously low blood pressure. He tells me to drink coffee, drink Coca-Cola—to get my system moving. I just started smoking ice instead. Seems to do the trick…So what the hell are you doing getting into the drug business?'

‘What?'

‘Couriering drugs. Dangerous stuff. I got into it 'cause when I die—and I'll probably die soon—I'm leaving behind a wife and two kids. Just gotta make as much money as I can for 'em…You know, that's the most important thing of all.'

Andrew hesitated. ‘Money?'

‘Nah, mate. Family.'

‘Why are you telling me all this?'

He laughed. ‘I dunno. Gotta pass on me pearls to someone. Me fucken kids don't listen to me.'

‘Mmm…'

‘I guess I just want to go out on a good note.' He paused in thought. ‘Square me debts. Pay back people who've done me favours and sort out the people who've fucked me.'

They continued along the road, tracing the fence-line surrounding the steelworks.

‘Did Sam talk you into doing this?'

‘No.'

‘Do you owe people money?'

‘No.'

‘You got a girlfriend with expensive tastes?'

Andrew shook his head.

‘You got a drug problem? Some kind of addiction?'

‘No.'

Phil's forehead wrinkled. ‘Good, you're lucky…So why are you doing it then?'

When Andrew didn't reply, Phil glanced at his watch. He spun the tyres in a U-turn and slammed through the gears.

‘Who is this guy that we're meeting?' Andrew asked. ‘Marcus.'

‘What's he like?'

Phil stared at the road. ‘He's a fucken arsehole.'

Ten minutes later, they pulled to a stop on a dark suburban street opposite a park. Along the other side of the street, was a row of rundown houses.

‘Where is it?' Andrew asked.

‘Around the corner.'

‘So why—?' He stopped when he glimpsed the gun in Phil's hand.

‘You think you know the kind of people you're messing with?' Phil said, leaning towards him. ‘The kind of things they do to people?' He shoved the gun inside his jacket, slouched in his seat and smiled. ‘Relax, okay? Just relax and do what I tell you to do.'

‘Okay, okay…'

‘Don't touch anything, and let me do the talking.'

‘Okay—I promise—'

Phil stared at him. ‘This isn't going to work unless you're relaxed.'

‘I'm relaxed, I'm relaxed.'

‘All right. Let's go,' he said and popped open the driver's door.

Andrew opened his door and got out. He wanted to run, but where? He followed Phil around a corner and up an unlit driveway. They stopped at the front door and Phil knocked. Neither of them spoke. Andrew stared over the weeds in the rock garden to the empty street. Phil had nothing to lose; he was going to die soon anyway. Andrew was only eighteen—he wasn't planning on dying for at least another fifty or sixty years. Maybe longer. Phil knocked again. Andrew prayed no one was home.

A slender guy wearing blue jeans and a creased black shirt opened the door and motioned them inside. He had thin blond hair, two day's growth and bags under his eyes. Andrew saw an expression close to panic pass through his eyes when he saw Phil. They moved through a bare living room with coarse orange carpet and torn lace curtains before stopping in the kitchen. There was no furniture apart from two lamps, their naked bulbs blazing, and a wall clock ticking in the silence. The air smelled of Pine-O-Cleen. Marcus turned to face them and pointed to a small blue sports bag in the corner of the room.

Andrew was lost for words but introduced himself and extended his hand. Marcus looked away without shaking it.

Andrew let his hand drop to his side.

The clock ticked.

Phil made his way over to the bag, squatted down and unzipped it. He gazed at the contents then looked up at Marcus. ‘The boys in Melbourne tell me their gear's been cut even more than usual.'

‘What are you suggesting?' Marcus asked.

‘I don't know, Marcus. What am I suggesting?'

Marcus crossed his arms.

Phil held his stare. ‘Have you cut this?'

‘No.'

‘I'm going to ask you one more time: have you cut this?'

Marcus uncrossed his arms. ‘No.'

Phil pierced one of the plastic bags with his car key, poked his finger through the hole and dabbed a little of the powder onto his tongue. He closed his eyes for a second, smiled and stood up. Andrew glanced between the two of them. No one said anything. Phil pulled out his gun and moved in.

Marcus backed away. ‘Phil…I promise it's not—'

He raised his hands to protect himself but Phil's gun smashed straight through them. On the second hit, the gun broke Marcus's nose with a sickening wet crack and he crumpled to the floor, blood pouring from his nostrils. Phil smashed his face with the gun three times in rapid succession. He started kicking him in the chest and back and bones cracked.

Andrew knew he couldn't just stand there; Phil would kill the guy if he didn't do something. He grabbed one of Phil's arms to pull him away, but Phil elbowed him in the chest and sent him flying.

Andrew yelled: ‘You're killing him!'

Phil slowed down and stepped away. Chest heaving, he withdrew a large blue handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his hands, wrapped his gun in it and shoved it back into his jacket. There was blood on his shirt and knuckles. He gave Marcus one last brutal kick in the back and turned to Andrew.

‘Let's go.'

Phil zipped the sports bag, picked it up and headed for the door. Andrew looked at Marcus, bloody and moaning on the floor. His face was pulped and his jaw was hanging at an unnatural angle. Phil stopped halfway to the door and turned back to Andrew. ‘I said, let's go.'