Vodka Doesn't Freeze (12 page)

'What? I'm not even in their fuckin' club.' Anglia was on his feet.

'Sit. Down.' Jill stood too. Anglia sat quickly.

So there was a club.

'Look, whether I like it or not, Bobby, I'm getting paid to stop the next death, so it's in your interests to tell me more about the club. You can't expect me to catch whoever's taking you guys out if I don't know where to look.' Jill had her pen poised. 'Let's start with the members you know.'

'I don't know what you're fucking talking about.' Anglia's eyes were back on the ground. 'I got nothing to say about no club. I don't even know of any club.'

Jill closed her notebook; put the lid on her pen. 'You know, Bobby, you should be a little more polite, swear a little less. I am a cop, and I can make a note in your file about your attitude. If you're in here for protection, doesn't your attitude have to maintain a certain standard?'

He raised his eyes, all compliance now. 'No problems here, boss. Sorry, boss.'

''Cause I can call Kellie back now if you really want to go. Tell the other guards you didn't feel up to cooperating today.'

'Nah, it's all sweet. I'm cooperating, boss. What did you want to know?' Anglia's feet had started to tap under his chair.

'Well, if you're sure now.' Jill paused a little, as if she was considering whether to go on or not. Finally, she took her notepad out again, tapped her pen on the paper. 'I just want to talk a little more about your friends. How long did you know Dennis Rocla?'

'He used to go out with my sister. I'd sorta see him around at times, you know. Then when he split up with his missus he stayed at the same pub I was staying at for a while.'

'Which pub was that?'

'Great Southern.'

Jill wrote it down.

'And then you moved in together, is that right?'

'Yeah.'

'What was that address?' She copied his answer into her notes. 'And how did you know George Manzi?'

'I didn't really know him. He was a mate of Dennis's. Him and that Carter came over once.'

'And when was that?'

'I don't know, a year ago? Something like that. I don't remember stuff too good. I got assaulted by police a few years ago, and since then I can't remember
shit
.'

'How did they know each other?'

'How the fuck would I know?' Suddenly Anglia's little attitude was back.

'You're going to watch your mouth, Anglia, or I'm gonna walk out of here right now and make a note in your file.'

Jill knew the officers on this unit tolerated no insubordination and came down very hard on anyone who tried it on. There had been several investigations into excessive use of force. Anglia had to know that too.

'Let's talk about the club.'

Anglia squirmed. 'Honestly, I don't know about any club.'

'But you know they were all into kids, don't you? You had to know that. What are you in for this time, Bobby?' Jill read from her notes. 'Says right here, "indecent sexual assault of a child under ten".'

'It was all bullshit.'

'Now, Bobby, come on. You pleaded guilty to this one.'

'I had to. They reckon I could've got ten years if I didn't. My ex-wife made it all up to get custody of my kids. All the dykes at DoCS stick together. Fathers have no rights. You don't see me in no sex offenders' unit do you?'

'Well you first have to admit that you're a sick fuck to get in there, don't you? So how did you get to know about the club?'

'I told you I don't know about no club.'

'No, you said you weren't in the club.'

'Whatever.'

'Well, tell me how long you've known Jamaal Mahmoud.'

Pause. 'Never heard of him.' Eyes up and to the left. Lying. Jill's first supervisor had taught her about visual accessing cues. When thinking about an answer, if someone rolls their eyes to the right, they're searching for a fact, accessing information they remember. When they move their eyes up and to the left, they're using their creativity, imagining an answer. Lying.

'Uh-huh, sure you have, Bobby. You know Mahmoud. Hired ape for Alejandro Sebastian?'

'Look, I don't know these people.' Anglia's eyes were a little wild now. 'Can I go? I'm gonna miss afternoon smoko.'

Scared. Jill figured he had shut down and she'd get little more from him.

'Yeah. Right. Go.' She stood and walked with him to the corridor outside. 'Stay safe, Bobby,' she said as he stood waiting at the gate for a guard to come and let him back into the yard. He didn't look at her.

Jill turned around and walked back into the office. She sat down and made a couple of quick notes. She stretched her neck again, kneading at the bunched muscles in her shoulders. Everything hurt. And this place did not help. The walls were oppressive, the air replete with pain rather than oxygen. The pain medication made everything feel muffled, the air stale.

She swapped chairs to be closer to the computer monitor; she wanted to check she hadn't unwittingly opened or closed any files when she'd used the keyboard earlier.

A sudden rush of movement left Jill no time to block or duck. The smell of male hair and sweat filled her nostrils. Struggling silently, her face squashed into the computer screen, her left arm wrenched high behind her back, Jill stopped moving when an intense pinpoint of pain stabbed at

the side of her neck.

'Anglia?' she tried to speak.

'Shut up, you fucking slut.' The voice in her ear was restrained violence, and definitely not Anglia's. The sharp point at her neck pushed deeper, breaking the skin. She got her right hand up to it. Her pen. She tried to push it away.

Her throat closed on a scream as the man pushed his hand down her shirt, crushing her breast in his fingers, pulling her upwards. The pain forced her to stand. She was not close enough to hit the buzzer.

'Don't fucking scream, you cunt, or I'll kill you right now.'

Jill gagged with revulsion as the man pushed his tongue into her ear. Wet, panting. His fingers were now at her fly, tearing at the zip. One hand still crushing her breast, he used his other hand to rip down her pants. His body pressed into her back, crushing her pelvis against the table. She could feel his erection on the exposed skin at the back of her legs. Blind panic overtook her and she thrashed violently; the movement causing her broken ribs to rip at her insides.

The world went white.

'I
T WASN'T ME
!' Jerome Sanders screamed over his shoulder at his father as he was marched up the corridor to his bedroom. His brother, Nathan, took the opportunity to make faces at him behind their father's back.

'You arsehole!' he tried to jerk from his father's grasp on his pyjamas. He wanted to smash Nathan's laughing face.

'Nathan. Get to bloody bed now.' Jerome's father opened his bedroom door, 'And you. Get in your room.'

Jerome threw himself on his bed, hot tears of rage welling despite his best efforts to force them away.

'It wasn't me, Dad. It was fucking Nathan.'

'You will not speak like that in this house, Jerome. Your little sister can hear you. I don't care who did it. You're both going to bed. We can talk about this in the morning.'

'It's not fair! You said I could watch
South Park
. I didn't do anything.' The tears were now falling down Jerome's twelve-year-old cheeks.

His father pulled his door closed.

'It's not fair,' Jerome sobbed into his pillow. 'I hate all of them.'

Tonight's fight had started when Nathan had grabbed the remote control and changed the TV from the news to
The Simpsons
. Normally that would be great, and Jerome would be all for it, but tonight his best mate's brother was going to be on the sport segment of the news. Nathan knew it.

By the time his dad had changed the channel back again, the sport was over.

Jerome made their sister, Abby, cry when he flew at Nathan, knocking her over in the process, but it was Nathan who'd pushed him into the china cabinet, smashing the curved glass panel.

His dad didn't even listen to him. Nathan got away with everything.

Jerome was sick of it. He'd missed Logan's brother on TV and he was going to miss
South Park
again.

Suddenly he had an idea.

He slid open his bedroom window and popped the flyscreen soundlessly out, letting it fall into the garden bed below. He then took his pyjamas off and pulled on the shorts and T-shirt he'd been wearing after school. He put his Vans sneakers on without socks.

Logan's parents are so much cooler than mine, thought Jerome, perching on the windowsill above his bed. It's only

7.45. They're not gonna care if I come over for a while. Still, he thought, looking out into his shadowy backyard, it's going to take me twenty minutes to get there, and it'll be pretty dark by then.

Jerome listened to the sounds in his home. He could hear his mum and dad talking in the kitchen and the low murmuring of the television in the lounge room down the hall. Nathan was still watching TV!

He turned away from his bedroom and dropped down from the window ledge into the garden.

'Shit!' he exclaimed, landing awkwardly in the azalea bush below the window. He looked up at the light from his bedroom window. Would they have heard him? He crept closer to the house, favouring his ankle.

There was no movement in the window above. Jerome straightened up and brushed some leaves off his skinned knee. He limped quietly past the clothesline and the above-ground pool they'd got for Christmas last year. Logan's family had an in-ground pool with a wooden deck and an outdoor spa. Maybe they'd be able to go for a swim tonight. Manoeuvring around the lemon tree at the bottom of the garden, he let himself out through their back gate. He would ring his mum from Logan's and ask to stay the night. His dad would be pissed, but they'd have to say yes in the end. He laughed, imagining Nathan's face when the phone rang.

Cicadas screamed at Jerome as he trod gingerly along the newly mown grass behind his neighbours' houses.

J
AMAAL'S HEAD POUNDED
. He'd been out of the hospital less than an hour. The doctors had told him to rest for a week, but he went where he was told by Sebastian. For now. He had just to pick up some money from one of Sebastian's clients, drop off a video to another, and he could go home. He thought of his fat wife and daughters waiting there, and decided instead to play some cards when he'd finished for the day. He consoled himself with revenge fantasies directed towards the person who'd almost cracked his skull last week. He felt himself grow hard as he replayed the violent images in his mind.

'Can't you close your mouth when you eat?' Jamaal Mahmoud hissed, staring at his dining companion in disgust. He stood up from the plastic table, pushing his half-finished meal away from him. Other than the two of them and an ageing man behind the counter, the café was empty.

'Where are you going? I'm not finished yet,' whined the thin man, still at the table, but standing anyway, shovelling food into his mouth in resignation. 'Why you always gotta be in such a hurry, Jamaal?'

Jamaal kept his hands by his sides, felt his fists clench. He imagined grabbing this junkie by the hair and cracking his face into the corner of the table. He couldn't stand the way addicts talked, as if they were always begging forgiveness. He stared at the table rather than at the gaol-drawn, ink tattoos on the man's hands and face. He couldn't keep the snarl from his face however, and his companion, noticing his eyes on the diner's cutlery, moved faster.

Why does Sebastian make me ride with these low-life scum? thought Jamaal, stalking from the table out to the carpark. A young couple, walking together towards the diner, wordlessly parted to allow him to walk between them.

The sun was setting on Parramatta Road, but the streetlights hadn't yet clicked on. Peak hour was dying down, but there were still plenty of cars driving west, home from work. Jamaal climbed up into the driver's seat of the Ford Transit van, his face dark with anger. Sebastian has a Mercedes, a Range Rover and a Lexus, he thought, and he gives me this shit to drive while I do his bidding.

He watched the junkie walking towards him, watched him struggling with his skinny arms to pull himself up into the van, concentrating, like it was hard work. Sebastian had insisted this guy come along to pick up the money; the client wouldn't open the door for a stranger. He turned his head, repulsed by the sores around the junkie's mouth, and started the van.

It was then that something caught his attention, distracting him from his favourite feeling – hate. A small figure. There. On the other side of the road. A boy, alone. Jamaal scanned the street on both sides, the car yards, parked cars. He couldn't see anyone with him. His breath quickened and his eyes narrowed. He felt a squirt of adrenalin in the pit of his stomach.

'Christ! Can't ya wait till I'm even in the car?'

Jamaal ignored the nasal voice of his passenger, eyes locked onto the kid who had just turned left onto Broughton Street.

Can't be more than eleven or twelve, he thought. Where is he going? He eased the van into the westbound traffic, and pushed his way through to the right-hand lane. He got to the lights at Burwood Road, and indicated to turn right.

'Jamaal, we're supposed to be in Mount Druitt at eight o'clock. Where are you going?' the junkie whined from the seat next to him.

He turned with the traffic when the light changed and did an illegal U-turn back onto Parramatta Road, ignoring protesting car horns, absorbed by the boy's movements. The light was fading now, but there he was. Still alone.

Jerome was beginning to think this wasn't a good idea. What if Logan's dad got mad at him for showing up? What if they weren't even home? It was getting pretty dark too, and he was starting to feel creeped out. He'd never been out this late by himself. He tried to think about watching
South Park
. Jerome's mum would probably give them ice-cream.

That van's driving slow, he thought, his heart quickening.

Probably lost. Hope he doesn't ask me where to go; I don't know the names of the streets.

I wish I'd never come, he thought, as the van continued to idle along at his side.

He looked at his sneakers and kept walking.