I Will Not Run (13 page)

“It was a weird sensation. I felt detached from what was going on, like I was watching a movie instead of my own sister’s death. Buttercup sped around those bends, way too fast, because she didn’t know how to drive properly. She didn’t even have a driver’s licence. Then, right in front of me, her yellow car slid off the side of the gorge. She tumbled round and round, falling down until,
smash
, she hit the rocks below.

“When she went over the cliff, I even felt a bit relieved. I think I muttered the word ‘good.’ I wish I hadn’t said that word. I didn’t mean it. Not really.”

“It was the shock talking, not you.”

I looked over at Ant, remembering that he was there. He’d sat through the whole thing quietly, listening with respect, like one of his faithful dogs.

“Sad story,” he muttered.

“Yeah.”

No one spoke for a moment or two.

“I haven’t told anyone about those photos, not a living soul. It’s weird, but here I am telling you, a complete stranger.”

Now, I’m not the only one that knows, Ant knows too. He knows that it was Buttercup in that photo. Buttercup was naked, turned with her back to the camera, encouraging those young girls to face Bruno and cop his abuse. She was using her support group as fodder, to feed my husband.

Ever since then, I find myself watching the clock, hoping that Ant will come over again. So far, he’s been here every few days. When he presses the intercom at the gate, I know to put the jug on. I hope Bruno
never
learns to handle those dogs because when he does, I’ll miss Ant’s visits. I’ll miss him more than I can bear to admit. I feel like I have a friend for the first time in many years.

Chapter 17

Bruno

Sod it, I hate that song. As I shot past Jim, I yelled, “Change the station, or turn the bloody thing off.”

Jim, our old sea-dog of a gardener, the one that looks sozzled like he’s been pickled in a jar of rum, flicked his blurry eyes my way before throwing the radio switch to off. I bolted past. Of course I didn’t thank him for cutting the song, nor did I make eye contact. It’s his job to fit in with me, and not the other way around. Jim’s job is to cut and tidy crap up, not to have fun.

I’ve got nothing against music. I just can’t stomach that particular song. Who listens to “Danny Boy?” Jim’s bloody lucky I didn’t boot his radio straight into the belly of the gorge.

Every time I hear that song, I feel like puking. I hate others tunes too, all the old songs my father used to sing. But “Danny Boy” is the worst of the worst because the old man was always in a sour mood when he sang it. He’d stumble home, usually on a Friday night, whistling that tune. If I heard him coming down the street singing “Across the Ocean,” I knew it was okay, I’d be safe for another day. Those were the good nights. “Across the Ocean” nights, he’d eat the dinner I’d cooked, then pass out on the sofa.

But if I heard him stagger home singing “Danny Boy,” then I’d almost wet myself. I still palpitate whenever I hear someone dragging their shoes across a concrete path. Old habits die hard, or not at all. I can’t hack the sound of shoes scuffing or clicking along any floor surface. Too many memories.

Heavy work boots make the worst sound of all. Some nights the old man would trudge home with his heavy boots dragging across our broken concrete path. For me, that scratching sound was the same as a war siren screaming about incoming bombs. I’d sit behind our closed front door, listening with my eyes screwed shut. Then the trembles would begin.

Some nights he’s come home and wouldn’t be singing at all. Not a whistle. I couldn’t breathe when I heard the silence because silence was really bad news.

I never went to sleep before the old man, couldn’t risk it. I couldn’t afford to fall asleep till he was in and had eaten and then conked out. It didn’t matter how late. I had to stay awake so I could gage the danger. It was the only way to keep myself safe. On the nights he came in silently like a ghoul from the graveyard, I’d almost blank out with fear. He’d drag his boots up the front steps and along the bare boards till he stood right outside my bedroom door. He’d wait a minute, I don’t know why, and then kick my door till it flung open. I’d have to stop myself from chucking up on the spot.

“Get up, boy,” he said, just like that, like he couldn’t remember my name. I’d get up, of course, my bones rubbery and elastic.

“Cook me something.”

That was why I never ate much of the food that was stored in our cupboards at home, just left it all intact for him, ready for when he bowled in drunk and needed a feed. Once I’d made the mistake of having nothing much in the cupboard to cook. I learned not to do that again. No wonder I stole from the IGA and never worried about getting caught. The old man didn’t care what I did. If the cops brought me home, he’d just raise his finger at them then keep on drinking. The cops didn’t frighten me one bit either. They were nothing compared to my old man.

I haven’t eaten spaghetti since I was a kid. Hate the stuff. Haven’t tasted it for thirty-something years and I doubt I ever will. I can’t forget the night he slid his spaghetti onto the floor, deliberately.

“Clean it up,” he whispered, his quiet voice more threatening than a full-out yell.

I squatted down and tried to scoop the lot back up onto a plate. I didn’t even see the kick coming.

Kick
. Then he’d get nasty. “No one’s going to love you ever,” he whispered while the world spun and I tried to cope with the pain. “How do you love a pile of shit like you boy, answer me that?”

Kick
. Everything was going dark, and I thought I was about to black out. “You’ll never make anything of yourself, kid, because you’re a looser.”

Kick
. “You’re a wimp. What are you? No one’s going to respect you.”

Kick
. I could feel myself slipping, losing consciousness and that was good because I wanted the darkness to come, anything as long as I got away from his boots. “Who’d do a thing you say?”

I shook those sodding memories away, shaking them from my head, focusing on my land and on everything I’d achieved. I wasn’t a child any longer. I had no one to fear. The old man was wrong. I had made something of myself. Friggin’ hell though, I wish those memories would fade. Hate the way they kept creeping back into my thoughts.

I pulled the paddock gate closed and looked up at the kennels in the distance. There was Ant, waiting for me, leaning against the cages. Good. It would have made me real mad if I’d had to wait by those freaking dog kennels for him. I don’t like the way my dogs slink round their wire run, like they hadn’t eaten for days.

“Bruno,” he said, nodding my way.

Ant’s an odd one, that’s for sure. He’s never brave enough to make eye contact.

I moved closer but stopped short of the cages, making sure I was more than an arm span away from him. It’s only right he comes to me. I stood just out of his reach, feet apart, arms folded across my chest, waiting for him to reach out to me.

Bronx, the leader of the pack, eyed me up and down. He’s always watching. I recognise a challenge when I see one. Bronx’s eyes always say,
Come and get me.

“Enough of the gentle play,” I snapped. “Time those bastard dogs learnt to obey me.”

Ant pulled himself off the side of the cage and moved over to greet me properly, offering his hand. “Bruno,” he said, thrusting his arm forward, wanting to shake on it.

I took his hand but kept the contact brief. With someone like him, I only give a quick, business-like shake. It’s a matter of status. No matter which way you look at it, Ant’s standing is way below mine. He’s damn lucky I shake his hand at all.

Ant fumbled with the oversized padlock. That goes to show just how strong and defiant my boys are. They need a padlock as thick as a dungeon door to keep them in. I listened to the click of the lock opening, and then the whoosh of the bolt sliding back.

Bronx was first out, shoved his head through the narrow gap before Ant had it half open. Ant clipped the crayfish clasp and chain onto Bronx’s collar, and then did the same for Omen. The boys bounded out, fighting to turn their heads my way, keen to give me the evil eye. I laughed. Good on them.

Ant’s control is something special, I’ll give him that much. He has those dogs focused and uber obedient. They started going through their routine: dropping, sitting, rolling, jumping, abruptly stopping and all manner of stuff they’d been taught to do, and I think they did it all without one word from Ant.

Did Ant ever open his mouth? I’m not sure. I don’t think I’ve heard that bloke say a full sentence. I wouldn’t recognise his voice, if my life depended on it. He’s never strung enough words together, so I have no idea how he really sounds. He’s the most withdrawn sod I’ve ever come across.

The dogs sat at heal, waiting for his next command. He pointed towards the far ridge. That was his quiet way of telling me to go over to the next hill, and when I was there, I was meant to wave and he’d send the dogs bounding towards me. The little creep had me trained too.

“Yeah, before we start all that,” I said, “I’ve got something I need to spell out to you first.”

Ant looked my way, squinting into the sun. He had this cautious, on-edge look about him the whole time, like a dog that regularly gets beaten by a piece of hose.

I’ve decided that Ant had it tough growing up too, like me. I bet he had a bastard of a father just like mine, and I reckon his old man is the reason he’s almost a mute today.

“It’s like this,” I explained, barricading my arms across my chest. “I’ve got my father to thank for the way I turned out. The old man used to enjoy taunting me. Terror was his specialty. The old arsehole used to get me to repeat lines like, “
No one is going to respect me
, and
no one is going to fear me
and
no one is going to do what I say
.”

Ant unclipped the dogs’ chain leads and waved his arms, giving the boys permission to run free. They belted around the paddocks, jumping over each other in excitement.

“So, hope you get what I’m saying here?”

He wasn’t looking my way. Instead, he mucked around with the dogs, picking up wood and chucking it, encouraging them to play fetch.

I pressed on, fearing that the point I was trying to make was going right over his head. “You see, Ant, nowadays I go out of my way to make sure the old man was wrong. You do see that, don’t you? That arsehole father of mine was wrong 100 percent. I
do
get respect, plenty of it. People fear me too, don’t you worry about that.”

He whistled the dogs over and then made them take turns running. He had a kind of relay thing going. “See, Ant, that’s where the dogs come in. Those dogs need to respond to me, and only me. They’re my dogs. I want you to teach them to obey me, and no one else.”

He shrugged, like it was a given.

“And there’s something else. I want you to turn them into the meanest motherfuckers that ever lived.”

Ant shaded his eyes from the sun. “They are already.”

“Nope,” I said, throwing a packet of smokes his way. He shook his head and threw the pack back. I knew he wouldn’t smoke. He wouldn’t want to take the risk.

“My dogs need to be worse than everyone else’s. They need to be well out of the ball-park bad. I want them to be the meanest sons of bitches ever born.”

I blew out a trail of smoke and watched it curl in the wind before weaving its poisonous way towards the house, and towards my loving and loyal wife. Right!

“Of course I’ll make it worth your while. I pay well, but you know that already.”

He sucked in a lungful of air, like he was preparing to say the longest sentence of his life. “Those dogs will always obey me. That won’t change, not until I stop coming around.”

I nodded. I wasn’t meaning him, the silly sod. I think it’s best he keep some control over the boys, in case.

“Just you and me, though. Got it?”

He knew what I was getting at. I needed him to program those dogs to hate, to hate and defy everyone except the two of us.

He didn’t answer right off.

“You got a kid?”

His eyes flew up to my face.

“Relax. It’s not a threat. It’s my job to know that sort of thing.”

He turned away and studied the dogs again, watching them tussle and roll around on the grass like a couple of pent-up ten-year-old children.

“I know money’s tight,” I said, chucking my cigarette butt into the grass.

“You want that kid of yours to go to a fancy school?”

He strained his head, turning as far from me as he could. That was okay, the guy was embarrassed and so he bloody well should be. His wife up and left him, and abandoned the sprog behind for Ant to bring up alone.

“I’d pulverise Winter if she walked out on me like your missus did on you.” I was trying to show him that I understood, and that it was okay to hate, and that I’d crucify any bitch that walked out of my life. I could never let any woman walk away from me, couldn’t let my dad be right.”

Ant curled his fingers near his lips and whistled, summoning the dogs to his side again.

“I’m prepared to double the money. All you have to do is turn those dogs into savages.”

He pointed towards the hill again, his eyebrows raised in question, but I shook my head. “Not today.” No, I won’t play your silly games today. I wasn’t going to run off into the distance and, on his command, have the boys bolt after me knowing they wanted to rip my leg off.

“Think on it. Think of all that money. All that dosh will set you two up good and proper. That boy of yours, he’s going to get costly soon.”

With that, I turned my back on him and walked away. I pulled the gate shut behind me and headed back towards the house.

I hate silent types because it’s hard to tell what they’re thinking. I bet he got bloody hammered at school. Weirdo.