The Debt Page 6

  The girl moaned. Tom leaned into her, slapped her across her cheek. “You hear that?” He said to Francis. “Hey, come on—wake up.” But she was quiet again. “I heard her, I’m sure of it.”

  “She's dead, Tom—look at her,” Ray told him.

  “She made a noise.”

  “Probably trapped air. You’ve heard it all before, bro. You should know these things.”

  Tom leaned a little closer. He muttered, “I heard something.” But as he was about to pull away, the girl came alive, raised her head, eyes wide peering through clotted clumps of her hair, mouth open to reveal teeth stained with blood and sharpened like giant cat claws. Her teeth encompassed Toms ear, sinking easily into his flesh and tearing it away from his head. Chunks of his hair followed. Scarlet sprayed and speckled her face as Tom fell back yelling and holding the place where he’d hoped to God his ear was still tethered to the side of his skull. But as he felt the warmth of his blood pass between his fingers, and he looked up at the girl to see her grinning at him, his ear fallen to her breast, he yelled out some more.

  Tom ploughed into Ray, looked up at him, as he cupped the side of his head. “Kill the mother fucker, Ray! Kill the son-of-a-bitch now!” Ray could only pray that God was looking down upon him, and for all the evils he had brought into this world, he would give justice this one time and award him the strength to pull the trigger. But before Tom had the chance to slice his chain across Dupont’s face and Ray could only dream about using the gun, Francis, in all of his lean nakedness, was upon them clutching a straight edge razor, its blade coated in blood.

  Their blood.

  The brothers glimpsed one another, saw each other’s lacerated throats, their white shirts stained with warm blood. Ray groped at his throat trying to stop the gush of blood pulsing through his torn skin like a second mouth breathing pathetically and with futility. But the more he tightened his grip, deep scarlet spewed through his fingers. He eventually surrendered his gun.

  Tom did the same, but his hand wouldn’t stop the bleeding either, and with a hand covering the side of his skull and the other pressing desperately harder against his throat, the chain clacking as his hand trembled, blood trickled down the chain like an army of ants on a rope.

  Francis was still smiling as he raised the blade a second time and swiped it cleanly across both their faces, slicing their eyes. Another swing would cut through the brothers’ cheeks and their tongues. He continued to swing wildly with the straight edge, his hair flying across his forehead, moving like a conductor orchestrating his musicians, a sinister smile frozen and never leaving his face, until Tom Brown hit the floor first, dead and hands still clutching at his throat as thick blood bubbled through his fingers and from every deep cut Dupont had made.

  By some miracle, Ray Brown was still standing. He stared at Dupont out of one good eye; the other was sliced in half and wanted to escape from his skull. His torn cheek was hanging open, blood pumping out of his mouth from his cut gums as he tried to say something to Dupont.

  “What?” Francis stepped closer, the smell of metal filling his senses. “What was that?” He put the side of his face close to Ray. He flinched as he was showered with spittles of blood as Ray attempted to speak. But Dupont wasn’t at all disgusted by this. He drew his index finger down the side of his face where the spit had settled and popped it adoringly into his mouth. Then he dropped his knife and faced Ray. He cupped his cheeks as Ray’s blood oozed through his fingers. Dupont kissed him on his mouth, swallowing as much of his blood as he could. He tasted alcohol and cigarettes and copper. He felt Ray convulse as he drove his body into his, and then stop and go heavy. But Francis continued to hold him upright as Ray died, not letting go of his head, sucking and eating the inside of his mouth, chewing his tongue, tasting his blood.

  He looked over at the girl—at Florence. She had already unbound her wrists, her teeth still large and monstrous. He said, looking down on Tom, “This one’s yours.”

  Ray was dead when Dupont’s teeth grew and ripped out the insides of his mouth, snapping his jaw the further he got, eating through the back of his throat, biting into his spine. Ray’s jaw pulled loose, away from the rest of his head, blood pouring glutinously down Dupont’s chest. The final bit of skin that stopped his jaw from hitting the floor stretched like melting plastic until it snapped. He never saw Dupont’s eyes glow red and then boil into dark holes like there was nothing left behind those eyes but a deep pit into hell. His cheekbones protruded like his skull was expanding and trying to grow beyond his flesh. As Ray fell to the floor, Dupont devoured him until there was nothing left but bone and teeth. He then turned to Tom’s body. Florence was indulging in his meat with flesh hanging from her lips. She took no notice of her father; only hunger interested her. He studied them both with soulless holes, Florence glistening in red juice, and as he accepted that his appetite was full, his long teeth shrunk back into his skull.

  8

  It was November the eighteenth. Jack was in Brooklyn celebrating his fortieth birthday at Romeo’s Italian restaurant. It was one of his rare visits to the borough of trees, but whenever he did go, they would eat at Romeo’s. Sam was there, too, and his wife Sandra; she was pregnant with their first child. Jack had funded the IVF treatment with his monthly allowance. A gift to his brother.

  They were shown to their seats, a table that had been specially prepared with a birthday boy blue balloon in the centre. Jack sat at the head of the table, Anja to his side. Their hands were joined. Across the table from her mother sat Lucy. She was eight and she had her mother’s hazel eyes and her father’s dark hair, tied back in a ponytail.

  When they had all got settled, Sam joined his brother at the bar. They said nothing for a while, not until the drinks had been ordered. “This is good,” Sam said, turning around and propping his elbows on the bar. Anja was speaking to Sandra, stroking the bump of her belly. He couldn’t help but smile, proudly. “Should happen more often. They get along well, don’t you think? If you moved back home, Jack, we could do this every week.” He sounded as though he was selling him a car or the latest television from Al’s Electronics. Or a new life. “Or maybe not every week,” he protested, “but at least once a month. And every Wednesday we could have a bowling night, just you and me. The girls could do what girls do,” he shrugged, and he looked like he was thinking what they would do on a night out.

  In the mirror where the spirits bottles were stored, Jack saw his reflection and observed Anja talking to Sandra. He frowned. “Why Wednesday?” he said. “Is Wednesday a customary bowling day?”

  “Doesn’t have to be Wednesday; could be Thursday or Friday. Any day of the week. Just not the weekends.”

  “Why not the weekends? Is that when you turn into a pumpkin?”

  He grinned, then stared thoughtfully at Sandra. “The weekends are special. They’re for the family.”

  “I am family; doesn’t that include me?”

  “You know what I mean!” He jabbed his elbow into Jacks side.

  “But you don’t have a family: children anyway. Not yet. And you should make the most of that! A silence undisturbed by a screaming baby.”

  “We’ve had a lot of trying, and made the most of that already, Jack—but then it gets, well—quiet.” He sighed. “I’m just getting into the habit, bro. Start as you mean to go on. Might as well hit the ground running.”

  Jack grinned. “You’ll make a good dad. You deserve it.” He slapped his back.

  “And so do you, Jack.” He wrapped his arm around him, leaned closer. “You also deserve to spend a little time with you brother.”

  Jack shook his head, still smiling because he knew what Sam was going to say. He knew what was coming. It was the same story every time they met, and each time Jack gave him the same excuse.

  Sam said, “I don’t know why you don’t move back home. What’s stopping you? You have everything and more.”

  “We’ve been through this, Sam.” He sounded irritable.


  “I know, I know. But—seriously? You haven’t seen this Dupont guy for ten years. Ten years, Jack. He might be dead for all you know.”

  “For all I know, Sam,” he said, simply, “I know he’s not.”

  “How’d you know, Jack?” He made a grab for his wrist. “How? He came knocking at your door or something?”

  Jack took back his hand, gave him a look like it was a warning. Sam let go but didn’t apologise. Jack sighed, turned to the table, waved to Anja. “Because they wouldn’t be here.” He stared back at himself in the mirror, then gave his brother a solemn look. “Sometimes I feel as though they’re part of the deal. And all Dupont has to do is give the nod and they’ll leave without a note…nothing. I’d never see them again. I know that for sure. He’s got eyes and ears all over the place, watching—listening.”

  Sam scoffed.

  “You don’t believe me.” Jack wasn’t surprised that he didn’t. “I wouldn’t believe me, neither.”

  “You make him sound like he’s not ordinary. He’s like you and me, man.”

  “He isn’t ordinary. That’s just the point. There is just something that doesn’t make sense about him. It worried me when I agreed to his conditions; it still worries me.”

  “What? You mean you knew something wasn’t right?”

  “I’ve always known. But it wasn’t as simple as that. It’s like he had a hold over me. I had no other choice.”

  “You’d only just met him. There are always choices, man.”

  “Not here they ain’t.”

  “That’s not good, man. I mean, it’s ridiculous that you think your family would walk away from you. Abandon you for the sake of one man. Look at them?” Sam nudged him. “Look at them, bro. They’re yours. They love you. You have a perfect family. You have money. No stress. A fine house, even if I do have to take your word on that.”

  “I wish you could come over.”

  “Well—we’ll arrange something then.”

  “Not that simple. He has his rules.”

  “Argh—more damn rules!”

  “See, it’s not so perfect after all.”

  “Can’t get out of it that easy, bro—still the perfect life!”

  He glanced over his shoulder. “I know, but it’s just a feeling I get sometimes. That it’s too good to be true.”

  “Now, you’re just rubbing salt into the wound. But really, what’s the worse can happen?”

  “What do you mean? Leave? Live in Brooklyn?”

  Sam shrugged coyly because that was exactly was he was suggesting.

  “Man, the weird thing is, I don’t know this man. I mean, really know him. But there’s something that isn’t right about him. I can’t put my finger on it. A hunch, I guess—a feeling. And I don’t know why it is, but he scares me.” Jack thought about his first meeting with Francis. He remembered witnessing the other guy giving him oral sex. He remembered how he felt when he learned it was Dupont’s own son. It’s just not right.

  The drinks were brought to the bar. Sam looked down at the tray. “Well, you’re still not drinking then? Does he number his rules? I suppose this is rule number one.”

  Jack smiled. “It’s not so bad when you get used to it. I imagined worse.”

  “Never thought I’d hear you say that, not when I think of the man I knew.” He paused as he looked at him. “You look real good, though. And, eh,” he nudged him again, and winked, “even Sandra’s giving you the eye.”

  “Sure she is, bro.”

  Jack took the tray over to the table. They ordered. Food came. They ate. They talked and laughed. Sam even had wet eyes as he knew the time was approaching when he would say goodbye to his brother.

  After the meal, Jack stayed behind to settle the bill. Sam looked through the restaurant window, coat zipped up to his chin, cigarette in his mouth. Sandra and Anja talked and hugged their farewells. Jack opened his wallet, flicked through the many notes. He had another package in his jacket pocket, too. Sam was struggling to pay the mortgage and this was Jack’s gift to him—no rules—no conditions. And he certainly didn’t want anything back in return. He didn’t tell Anja he was gifting Sam. He didn’t want anything getting back to Francis just in case. Although there was nothing to say he couldn’t do it; nothing in the rulebook stating that he couldn’t help out. It would be enough to buy the house.

  He pulled out two hundred dollars, left the money on the table. As he was about to stand and leave, a young waitress delivered a small box to him. She said that it was from the gentleman sitting in the eves. Jack looked up, though the bar prevented him from seeing who was sitting there.

  The present was decorated with red ribbon. He sat back down, checked the window where Sam had crouched beside Lucy, ruffling up her hair, and then gazed down at the box, and at anyone else who might be watching him. He pulled the ribbon away, opened the box, glared at the watch inside and removed the note that accompanied the present. It read:

  Happy 40th Birthday, Jack Monday.

  A small gift.

  F.D

  Jack searched the room; he got up and went around the bar and to the eves from which he had no full view. Apart from waitresses cleaning up the tables, the room was just about empty. There was no one sat within the eves, either. But from behind, he caught a draft on the back of his neck. He turned just as the entrance door closed and a tall figure walked past his family. He could only see the back of him, his black jacket long enough to cover his knees and his swept-back dark hair, which shined under the neon sign of Romeo’s. Jack had noticed Anja acknowledge the man, too, with both immediate surprise, and then fear. Scared that she had been so brave to look at him. She had even taken a step back like she was trying to put a safe distance between herself and Francis. He didn’t make eye contact, but he did observe Lucy with a kind of curiosity and felt obliged to sweep his gloved hand across the top of her head. Anja admonished him, her eyes raised and angry. Sam said something to him too, stepped forward, Anja holding him back by a fist of his jacket. More words came from Anja’s mouth and flowed in Dupont’s direction, although he didn’t seem to care, and raised his hand for her to stop. She did stop, and Jack could see that suddenly she regretted whatever she had said to him. Her hand still holding onto Sam’s jacket, she lowered her head submissively, until Francis was gone.

  9

  Twenty years. Twenty thousand dollars a month. Twelve times Twenty thousand. That would make two hundred and forty thousand over a year. That times twenty years would make two hundred thousand short of five million. Five million dollars, and with the addition of five hundred thousand to the Brown brothers: Five million five hundred thousand over twenty years. That’s how much his life was worth. When Francis Dupont had asked him that same question, he didn’t stop to think about the extra money he was being given. That wasn’t part of the deal. Five hundred thousand to pay off his debt to the Brown brothers; that was the deal. But that’s how much his life is worth: Five and a half million. It was worth a lot more than that, though. Twenty years had given him Lucy and Anja. It had given him a family. It had helped Sam out over a dozen times and had made the final payment on his house, too. Not to mention given his brother the money for the IVF. Twenty years had given Sam a family, too.

  So why would Francis Dupont have gifted him so much? It was beyond the money. It was family. The gift was priceless. It was impossible to pay back. There was only one payment that would match such generosity. And although for a while Jack was having nightmares thinking about what Francis would want from him, there was this one question he couldn’t shake that fuelled the nightmares. How much do you value your Life?

  Jack Monday sat on the cobbled beach overlooking the lake. Anja and Lucy were baking. The smell of chocolate cake and cinnamon drifted into the fresh pine air. Sam had demanded to make the trip for his brothers fiftieth, although Jack had insisted for him not to. An afterthought had convinced Jack that it sounded more like a warning than insistence. And besides, he still hadn’t revealed his address
even after twenty years living at the lake. In three days, they had once again arranged to meet up at Romeo’s. His birthday would be over by then. But it didn’t matter. Today was November 18th, and he was now fifty.

  That day had arrived: the day where Francis wanted something back. He still had no idea what that something might have been, although over-thinking and speculation were the cause of several sleepless nights of late, and the same stress that had aged him all those years ago was beginning to show its ugly face.

  Lucy had been homeschooled since the beginning; Anja seemed as though she knew what she was doing so Jack had no concerns about her education. Although, where they lived, they were alone. The nearest town was thirty miles away; the nearest city was 150 miles. A public school was impossible. Lucy was eighteen now.

  Sometimes, it looked to Jack that Anja had wanted to tell him something for some time, pull him aside and reveal some dark disturbing secret that would horrify him. But she never did. All those years of missed chances. Although Jack made excuses and pleaded with his mind to refrain from thinking the worse.

  There are no dark secrets, Jack. It’s just you! You are paranoid and you’re scared.

  The final weeks before today, though, those excuses disappeared and his mind was clear. He had known Anja for twenty years. They had lived in solitude for all that time and they had survived. Many relationships don’t last after five years of only seeing one another in the evenings. They had something stronger. He knew her. He knew her! And as he watched her, her eye contact becoming lesser by the day, pushing her hair behind her ears when she got nervous, and her dark sleepless eyes that usually beamed, but now seemed to have a piece of her missing, he knew that there was something she wasn’t telling him. She always had that apologetic look in her eyes like she was guilty.

  He had wondered whether Anja was still in contact with Francis: whether she ever was. If he had done something wrong within the years since he agreed to Dupont’s conditions, sealed the contract with blood. Something to force her hand; something where she was pressed to inform him, as an employee would to her employer. Because that’s what she was. As much as he loved her (perhaps not from the very start) he did think whether she felt the same. Of course, Lucy would love him no matter what, because the only strings attached were genetic. But Anja was different. She had other forces pulling her in a different direction. She was obligated. She had been trained to do what she was doing, to be a wife—a mother.