Finding North (26 page)

I
lean forward in my seat as my old man staggers up the lawn and through the glass sliding door of the house. He doesn’t bother locking it; he doesn’t even attempt to close it properly. Our town has always been that safe. You leave your doors unlocked, your keys in the car. Children play unsupervised in the streets, and you know all the tiny little insignificant details about your neighbours because people talk to one another; we say hello on our way to work, or while walking down the street. We grew up here, our parents grew up here. Nothing bad ever happens to the good people of Red Maine.

The
good
people are just fine.

I unscrew the lid of the old metal flask my father gave me when I turned eighteen, the only thing he ever gave me in my life that meant anything—well, that and the ability to defend myself—and wince as the bourbon slides down my throat, burning my gullet like acid.

We are the product of our fathers, Will and me. Will would let the law handle this, even knowing it will get him nowhere. Will was raised by a good man.

I wasn’t
.

I was raised by an angry drunk with a hair-trigger temper and the desire to hit things, and so that’s what I became. A drunk with little patience, an angry man, and a son seeking revenge for a lifetime of hurt.

Before my mother checked out, she told me to look after my father. As a kid I thought that was strange, but the older I grew the more I came to understand it. He did need looking after, because he was a child, and I’d somehow become the responsible adult, taking care of him, working two jobs when I was old enough so we’d have the money to eat. I put food on the table every night, and every night I scraped it off into the garbage when he’d come home with a belly full of booze, spoiling for a fight.

I hope he’s in the mood for one tonight.

I screw the cap back on the flask and toss it on the passenger seat as I slide out of the ute and close the door quietly. Dad had been twenty feet away and not even noticed my truck parked in the drive, which tells me he’s consumed his usual amount of alcohol for the night. I don’t know where, but I know it wasn’t at the pub because it’s still boarded up.

I stand outside, peering in through the open door. Sliding it a little farther back, I step into the lounge room. The TV illuminates everything—the tiny run-down wood-panelled room, the brown threadbare couch that had been salvaged from the tip on one of our midnight raids to acquire new furniture when I was just a kid. The kitchen behind it is littered with pizza boxes, empty bottles of booze and moulding food scraps, if the smell is anything to go by, and there, sleeping in his tattered armchair, a throne as wretched as the bitterness inside him, is the bastard. He’s softly snoring, with his pants unbuttoned and his belt off, hanging over the arm of the couch beside him, his face slackened with sleep.

The Swiss Army knife burns a hole through my jean pocket. I slide my fingers in and grab it, closing my fist around the smooth, rounded edges. I flick the blade out and stare at the blue-light reflection from the TV glinting off of the metal. I didn’t come here to shove a knife in his throat while he slept, but there isn’t a part of me that doesn’t doubt that I could do it, that I should do it.

I know Will wouldn’t be proud if he could see me right now. Anyone else might think my father was about to get his just deserts, but Will wouldn’t want me here exacting revenge.

That’s the difference between him and me
.

As he sleeps, I study my father’s features. People say we look alike, that I’m a chip off the old block, and in too many ways I am. He brought me up not to care. I rebelled, and now that he’s fucked with what’s mine, I’m going to fuck him back.

“Wake up, you piece of shit,” I shout, slamming my boot into the side of the chair. The footrest groans back in against the frame and he’s tilted upright.

Dad goes on the defensive immediately, springing up and hurling himself at me. I stagger back with the blow, into the wooden coffee table that splinters beneath our weight.

The knife flies out of my hands. His arm swings back and connects with my cheekbone. A sharp burst of white-hot pain radiates through my skull, but it’s nothing I’m not used to. I block his next attempt, shoving my elbow up into his face, but either he’s too drunk to feel it or he’s just so fucking crazy that he doesn’t give a shit because he doesn’t waste any time beating on me again. Three more hits in quick succession, one to the same cheek, one to the nose, and a third to the throat and I’m laid on my arse.

I gulp in air like I’ve just been winded, but this is so much worse than that. He perches on my chest and smiles down at me, his hand wrapping around my neck and squeezing.

“I should have done this a long time ago,” he pants, as I scratch and claw and grapple at his hands. He tightens his grip. I’m choking, making this horrible wheezing sound as I suck in air that isn’t there, but the worst part? His face is serene as he attempts to strangle the life out of his only child.

I buck, trying to unseat him from my chest, sinking my fingers into the soft flesh of his upper arm I grip and pull, causing his hand to loosen. That’s all I need. I ram my fist into his soft belt, up under his ribcage, and he falls back with the blow. I yank the belt from the back of the couch and whip it around his neck, sliding the leather through the loop and pulling tight. He chokes. I pull tighter, using both hands, tugging with a white-knuckled grip until the leather cuts into my palms. Dad’s face is puce, his eyes bulge and limbs flail.

I wrap the length around one arm and tug. For the first time in my life, there is fear in my father’s eyes. There’s a monster reflected back at me too—blond hair, eyes narrowed in concentration, face contorted with the effort it takes to strangle a man. The monster is me.

I’m just like him
.

I let go of the belt as if it would burn me. His head slams back on the remnants of the hardwood table.

He gasps. His fingers slip beneath the leather and pull. The impromptu choke chain loosens a little, but he isn’t home free yet. He coughs, gulping in deep, shuddering breaths. I wait a beat and yank on the belt again. “Who else was there?”

He doesn’t respond. I slam my fist into the side of his head. It whips back and forth. I seize his hair in my hand and slam his head into the wood. “Who else was there?”

He just laughs, blood coating his lips and teeth. “Fuck you,” he spits, misting my face with blood. I swipe a glob of saliva off my cheek. “I ain’t telling you shit.”

I growl, slamming my fist into the side of his head. He groans. I snatch up the belt and pull so tight my joints creak. Fingers claw at my injured hands as he chokes, but I ignore them. It’s the thought of Will that causes me to stop and let go.

“You can’t fix this.
The best you can do for me right now is to walk away.”

I shove off my dad, and he rolls onto his side, having only enough energy to slide his fingers between the belt and his flesh. It shifts, the buckle thuds against the floor, and I stare at the red welts I created. “Fucking pussy. You couldn’t even do it. Too fucking gutless.”

I drag him to his feet by his shirt collar and swing, cracking my fist against his cheekbone with a grunt. “Oh, I could do it, but you know what I realised? It takes more effort to walk away than to strangle you right now, and that’s what makes me the bigger man. Because you don’t mean shit to me, and killing you isn’t worth my happiness or Will’s. I hope you choke on your motherfucking vomit, you old drunk homophobic bastard.”

I shove him hard. He stumbles back against the couch as I straighten. Dad’s hand reaches across the sofa and grabs the knife I dropped, slashing it in a wide arc. A rent opens up in my jeans just above my knee and blood spills out. I kick the knife from his hand and land one last blow to his temple, knocking him out cold. Reaching down warily, I check his pulse—faint, but still there, unfortunately. Heading into the kitchen, I locate the house phone under a discarded microwave dinner and dial triple zero.

I tell the woman on the line that I need an ambulance, and then I drop the phone and limp back to the truck. I don’t care about removing evidence that I was there, and I’m not trying to cover anything up. I know that Johnson won’t waste time looking for other suspects because I’ve always been
persona non grata
when it came to my father. I don’t plan to make life more difficult for the Red Maine Police Department. I intend to deliver myself right to their doorstep. I just have somewhere else I need to be first.

Smithy’s house is just a few blocks from mine, overlooking the same stretch of ocean. He’s in the garage finishing off some woodworking shit, even though it’s well after midnight. He glances up as I pull into the drive and climb out of the ute. His whole body stiffens. I’m covered in blood, from my face to fists, and there’s that wound on my leg. Smithy’s eyes widen, and for a beat he stands stock-still, taking me in, and then he turns on his heel and runs for the door leading in to the house. I limp after him, grab his shirt and slam him up against the wall. Wrapping my arm around his throat, I squeeze.

His hands come up in a placating gesture. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You were there.”

“No. I wasn’t.”

“Why the fuck you running, Smithy?”

“Have you seen you?” He might have a point there, but I’m not buying it. I saw the way he flinched when he realised it was my truck that pulled into his drive just now.

I pull back my fist and punch him in the nose. He cries out and I reel back again, but he opens his mouth and starts tripping all over his words. “I never meant to go along with it. I got caught up. Honest. We were at Tommo’s, and the boys were drinking too much and rousing for a fight. Your dad started on about Will and the next thing I know I’m caught up in a hate crime. Nobody said nothin’ about hurting him; they were just gonna scare him a little. I never touched him. I swear.”

I pull my fist back again and slam it into the cupboard beside him with a roar. It hurts like a motherfucker, and Smithy’s eyes are squeezed tightly closed not two inches from my bloodied hand.

“Oh god,” he mutters. “Holy shit.”

“Names,” I demand, taking out my phone and hitting the mic button.

“Come on, North,” he pleads. “They’re gonna kill me.”

“Not if I do it first.” I press record. “Names, Smithy. Give me the names of the men that attacked Will.”

“Okay, okay.” He holds his hands up again. His voice tremors as he says, “Rob Underwood, Tommo Gibson, Dan Gilchrest and Rooster.” He shakes his head as he corrects himself. “Dan Morgan.”

I give him a look. “And you, John Smith.”

“I didn’t touch him. I told you that.”

“You were there; that’s enough.”

“And me,” he says, avoiding my gaze.

I release my hold on his throat and hit send on the voice recording, emailing it to Johnson and adding my address in the BCC with the note that reads:

Done all the legwork for you
.

You’re welcome
.

North
.

I leave Smithy in a cowering mess, swiping at his bloody nose. As I walk to the truck and hop in, I try not to smile at the fact that I just beat the shit out of my boss.

That’s gonna be awkward come Monday
.