Vodka Doesn't Freeze (13 page)

'S
HHH, YOU'RE ALL RIGHT NOW
.'

Mum?

Something troubled Jill, batting around her thoughts like a blowfly. It's best not to notice, she told herself, unwilling to face the feeling. Just listen to the noises in the back-ground. The page of a book being turned. Quiet breathing. Gentle repositioning noises of someone in a seat next to her.

Lying down or sitting up? I'm lying down. Must be night-time. But it doesn't feel like it. Smells funny in here. Kind of medicinal.

Jill felt the memory inexorably building at the edges of her consciousness, a far-away roar of knowledge gathering pace, drowning everything in its wake. Before the wave of recall hit, her stomach clenched in frightened anticipation.

She sat up, frantic. Wild-eyed. Where was he?

'Jill, it's okay.' A female voice, familiar, yet not. 'It's Claire. We met earlier.'

'What happened?' Her heart in her throat.

'The officers got him off you, love. Nothing happened. You're okay.'

'Who was it?' She already knew.

'Edward Pavey, I'm afraid. They call him Teddy,' said Claire.

'Where are we?'

'The clinic. The doctor's coming. Just lie back for a while.'

'I'm okay.' Jill bent down, fighting nausea, searching for her shoes. 'I passed out. I've had an injury. Supposed to be in bed,' she muttered. She felt so ashamed. What did the officers think of her? Attacked with her own pen. She just wanted to go home.

'You have to wait for the doctor anyway, Jill,' said Claire kindly but firmly. 'We have to fill in an incident report or we're all in trouble.'

Great. They'd have a record of her humiliation.

'Where's Pavey now?' She hoped she wouldn't have to see him. She didn't think she could walk past any of the men on the unit right now.

'Getting charged. He's over at the hospital. Got his arm broken when they got him off you.'

At least there's that, Jill thought.

Claire stood over near the sink. 'The unit's on lockdown, of course,' she said, walking back with a glass of water. 'Here.' She offered it to Jill.

Jill took it. 'Kellie said Pavey's a serial rapist?'

'He breaks into houses and ties his victims up. He likes to beat them with a dog chain.'

Jill drained the glass and leaned back against the pillows, lightheaded again. After giving Claire a watery smile, she closed her eyes and resigned herself to the wait, to making the report, to the check-up by the doctor. It wasn't like she could just walk out of Long Bay Gaol.

Besides, she thought, I'm going to need to get something stronger from him to get to sleep tonight.

J
AMAAL THOUGHT ABOUT
snatching the kid now. Last time he'd brought in a boy this age, Sebastian had given him fifteen grand. He could use that right now. His wife was bitching about school fees, but he could probably use it to win twice as much at cards.

There was a park just ahead. On the other side of the road was a school. Perfect street really. The trees made it darker than others. He would just stop a little way ahead of the boy and pull him into the back of the van as he passed. He knew it would be easy. The kid would be in the van before he knew what was happening.

The junkie was on the phone. He had the thing permanently glued to his head, doing deals in his whiny voice. Could he trust this prick to keep his mouth shut? He listened to the lies he was spinning over the phone and knew he couldn't. The first chance he got to make some money from the story, the junkie would tell whoever was asking.

The boy was approaching the park. It was now or never. Jamaal felt his muscles tense. He was rock hard with the feeling of impending violence, mesmerised by the pulsing of his blood in his ears. He looked at the door handle, ready.

Reason prevailed. He had a witness. A witness that couldn't disappear yet. Sebastian had him by the balls. He let go of the door handle and watched the boy cross the road and walk up past a few more houses. Almost panting with suppressed rage, Jamaal watched the kid approach the gate of number 38; he saw him pause for a minute, then open the gate and walk through. As the boy approached the front porch, a sensor light tripped and he heard the doorbell ring. He waited until he heard voices, then accelerated a little and turned the corner.

Fifteen grand.

The junkie laughed at something said on the phone. Jamaal felt his blood boiling; he stared at the road through a film of wet red. He drove the van a couple of blocks, chest heaving, and pulled over at the first dark place he could find.

The junkie hung up the phone and looked around in surprise.

'What are we doing here, man?'

Jamaal didn't speak. He cracked his fist into his passenger's face, oblivious to his pleading; he could hear only his own blood, roaring in his ears like a great mob. He grabbed the junkie by the back of the neck and forced his head down to his crotch, his other hand freeing his erection.

The junkie only stopped crying when he nearly choked. He set to work getting it over with. It wasn't as if he hadn't done it all before.

'Y
ES
,
HELLO
, IT'S Peter Wheeler here. I'm Logan Wheeler's father. Is that Jerome's mum?'

Jerome looked anxiously up at Logan's father, on the phone calling his house. Mr Wheeler, listening to Jerome's mum on the other end of the phone, leaned against the kitchen wall and ruffled Jerome's hair. Jerome stuck his head around the kitchen door, hearing laughter from the lounge room. He was missing
South Park
.

'I don't know whether you've noticed yet, but you're missing a child.' Jerome was drawn back to the phone conversation. Logan's parents had been cool when he'd shown up, but when he'd told them he came over without telling anyone, they'd skitzed out. Jerome's dad looked down at him, nodding.

'Yes, I know. I'd kill Logan if he did something like that too. But Jerome's right here, and he's fine. Logan's got him some pjs ready and it's okay with us if he stays the night.'

Yes!
Jerome beamed up at Logan's dad. He positioned himself in the doorway and did a little victory dance in front of Logan and his brother. Logan pumped a fist in the air, grinning. Logan's big brother said, 'Faggots,' and went back to watching TV.

Brothers suck, thought Jerome.

'Yes, Narelle. I'm sure you do. I'll put him on.'

Logan's father handed Jerome the phone and Jerome stared from it to the man holding it and back again, horrified. He finally took the receiver, handling it as if it were burning hot, and head bowed, face miserable, he put the phone to his ear. Peter Wheeler smiled and shook his head, and walked from the kitchen back into his lounge room.

Jamaal and the junkie had completed their errands. Praise God, this night is nearly over, thought Jamaal, leaning against his van, his bandaged head resting on his hand. It was only when the junkie's whining had become unbearable that Jamaal had stopped the vehicle and given him a fix. Sebastian had insisted that Jamaal only give him heroin after they had completed their jobs.

Like I would be stupid enough to do it before, he thought, fuming at Sebastian's assumption that he was so ignorant. He intended to make his boss pay for his assumptions one day. Hadn't he proven his worth a thousand times over already? What about Mary – did she count for nothing? A slut who knew too much, and could speak too well. It had taken him just a week to find her after she'd gone underground. Sebastian had told him just to cut out her tongue. A lesson to others, he'd said. It had been too difficult, however, for Jamaal to stop, once she had started to cry. Her bleating had excited him, had driven him to punish her further. Seven years, and still her body had not been found.

Jamaal took a few steps away from the van, walking a little way down the alley in which he had stopped to appease the junkie. From the wound at the back of his head, rhythmic flares of pain bloomed with his pulse. He took a small packet from the top pocket of his sweat-stained shirt. He popped two aspirin tablets from the blister pack and put them in his mouth, crunching them, dry. He ignored their bitter, vinegary taste. He lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply.

Under the only streetlight in the alley, he noticed a youth and his girlfriend parked in a car two vehicles behind his own. P-platers. They each looked away when his eyes met theirs. He noticed the female furtively use her elbow to push down her doorlock; her boyfriend's hand hovered near the ignition. He grinned, his yellowed teeth coated in the chalky residue from the painkillers.

He continued to watch the teenagers. Their eyes widened as the junkie performed his ritual, oblivious to all around him, absorbed in his communion with his one true love. Squatting in the gutter beside the van, a rubber tube was cutting the circulation to the lower half of the man's skinny arm, pumping up his veins. Jamaal had once watched him mainline into the fat blue blood vessel in his penis, frustrated with being unable to find a vein quickly enough in his arm.

The junkie was in the zone. He'd finished melting the white powder in a spoon. He drew it up, now a clear liquid, into the syringe and injected it. A moment. Then his body lurched forward and he projectile vomited over his feet. He collapsed forward over his knees, in ecstasy.

Jamaal laughed in delight at the look of revulsion on the teenagers' faces, and walked back to his vehicle. He picked the junkie up by the shoulders and threw him in through the passenger's door, making sure to smack his head on the frame as he did so. He walked around to his own door and got in. The smell of vomit made him gag.

'
Kess emmak
,' he spat, cursing the man's mother in Arabic. He drove out of the alley.

Jamaal made his way back to the house in Hunters Hill. He promised himself that he'd go back to the street in Burwood in the morning.

The boy was a sign. Jamaal believed in signs. His luck was changing; he could feel it in his groin.

I
T WAS THE WEAKNESS OF
Australians he despised the most. The way they allowed their soft, white bellies to keep mushrooming over their pants; the way they couldn't keep their mouths shut, or the lust from their eyes. Jamaal watched another roomful of weak, white men being fleeced by his boss, Mr Sebastian.

They came from all over the state, some from interstate, drawn by word of mouth and by Sebastian's internet site, knowing that what they got here would be worth the trip, worth the premium price. The photos, jpegs and DVDs they could buy here could not be bought over the internet, on the street, nor from the backrooms of adult bookstores. Sebastian kept stuff you only heard about, stuff you dreamed about while lying with your ugly wife in the dark of night. He had all ages, different nationalities, rape films – some even said you could get snuff films. Jamaal knew the truth of the rumour.

'Ah, Jamaal, you're back. Things ran smoothly, I trust?' Mr Sebastian turned from one of his customers when Jamaal entered the room. 'I see you've brought our friend in with you.' He continued to smile, but Jamaal noted with satisfaction that Sebastian's eyes narrowed when he caught the odour the stupefied junkie trailed through the refined lounge room. 'Sometimes I wonder at you, Jamaal. Our friend looks to be unwell. Perhaps he'd be more comfortable at home.'

'I thought you'd want the delivery first.' Jamaal handed over a fat, dirty yellow envelope. Twenty-one thousand dollars. He'd counted. In addition to porn, Sebastian provided drugs to some of his customers. He was no big-time dealer – he didn't need to be – but men were used to getting anything they needed from him, and when one had the money, Sebastian could be a one-stop shop. Cocaine and ice had always been the most common requests, but over the past few years, Rohypnol, Special K and Fantasy were increasingly requested. Date-rape drugs. Jamaal could understand the attraction.

Sebastian took the envelope. Again, his face registered a look of distaste, directed at Jamaal. He fixed his employee with a final stare, and turned back with a smile to his customer, a slack-jawed sheep farmer from Wagga whom Jamaal had seen here before.

Jamaal looked around the room for the junkie and almost laughed out loud. He was on the nod on one of the designer lounges, no-one around him, regurgitated food still stuck to his shoelaces. Jamaal looked at his watch. Twenty to twelve. No time for cards. At least the fat bitch would be asleep.

And there was always Burwood in the morning to look forward to.

He'd intended to be out of the house before she woke up – God knows she usually slept late enough – but the five-year-old had been sick all night, and Jamaal was not able to avoid speaking to his wife the next morning.

'Where are you going already?' She was outside the shower. 'I need money for food. Money for medicine. Why do you spend all of our money on gambling? What kind of a father are you? What kind of a man? What time did you come home last night? God save me. My father told me you are no good.'

Jamaal got out of the shower. His head had ached all night. He reached up and touched the wound at the back of his head. The bandage had become wet in the shower and was peeling off. He walked into the bedroom of his small Lakemba townhouse and began to dress.

'I have to have money. There is no food.' His wife stood behind him. The baby cried. The sound bounced around and around in his aching head like a squash ball.

Jamaal moved to the bed, took a hundred-dollar note from his wallet and threw it on the floor. He continued to dress.

'That is not enough. I have the bills tomorrow! Medicine. I have passed by hell living with you! I wish God would take me now,' she wailed.

The baby's cries increased. Jamaal indulged himself in an image of slamming his fist into his wife's face. He did not enact the fantasy. He knew her father and brothers would finish him if he hit her again. Let them feed her, he thought, and left his house. It seemed as though everyone in it was crying.

The van started first time and he made his way towards Burwood. Saturday. There were few cars on the road. Every traffic light seemed to be green. Another sign.

Despite the pain in his head, Jamaal felt today was going to be a very good day.