The Debt Read online

  Jack had wondered all those years ago when it had all begun, whether their relationship was meant to be, or whether Anja had her orders. Was this all real or had she her instructions? He kind of knew that something wasn’t quite right from the start, but after noticing her reaction when, who he could only assume was Francis, had passed her outside of Romeo’s on his fortieth, he saw things differently. Since then, he saw Dupont as a man to really fear and each year that came and went he wondered what would happen on his Fiftieth birthday. But the wait was over. It was now. Jack had decided to keep the celebration between them. Best keep low because he knew that something was about to happen. He didn’t reveal the agreement to Anja. He guessed she already knew.

  That’s why she was here, after all. To look after Jack until his fiftieth. To keep him eating well, exercise regularly, to make sure he bathed three times daily. That was the challenge: a bath in the morning, afternoon and evening. In all that time, Jack hadn’t once fallen from the ritual. Was it fear that restricted him? He remembered Francis on their first meeting, and by the end of the meeting, he felt that this stranger, where still he knew relatively nothing about him, could have chosen to end Jack’s life. So, was it fear? Jack suspected it was. He didn’t want to think of the consequences just in case he had strayed from the rules. Although, he was tempted on many occasion, just to risk what might happen. This was a curiosity that never died. But he had always stuck to the rules.

  Always.

  But now he wondered whether his gift was worth these twenty years, and as he watched the reflections over the surface of the lake, the Brown brothers came into his mind. In the past, he had thought what had happened to them—to his debt. But today he was thinking about them even more. Because today was when Francis Dupont will collect his gift. He would know whether all of this was worth it.

  Perhaps, Jack had hoped, after twenty years Dupont had died or had forgotten altogether. He could have died ten years ago and all his worry was pointless. Although, Jack realised that this wishful thinking was highly unlikely.

  Anja was all part of the gift Dupont had so generously given, too. And now—he wanted something back. Did he want Jack to work for him, do deeds that no one else would commit to? To kill someone, to kill many people? Maybe this was the price he had to pay. But why the strict rules: the healthy eating and all that followed. Would this place still be his home?

  Jack glanced over his shoulder, watched the girls through the kitchen window. Lucy was talking to her mother. But Anja wasn’t listening. She was distracted; she had been for a while. But this was different. She looked out the window, not at Jack, but across the lake, her face gaunt and bled from colour as if the dead had sent her a message. Jack traced her sight and noticed for himself the cloud of dust from the other side of the lake. And then, a shiny black car turning left and over the wooden bridge. Jack stood up, brushing down his trousers. He assured Anja that it was okay. The car came to a sudden halt at the side of the house. Anja came out, running, her face twisted by anxiety, her eyes wide and desperate.

  She knew something was wrong. Had always known. She had counted down the years and months until this day, always hoping it would never happen, would somehow skip over and just start the next day.

  But of course, she knew. She knew everything. She probably knew the detail of the debt to be paid back, too. She went passed Jack, pinching at his hand as a reminder that she wasn’t ignoring him, and screamed at the man. At this point, Jack couldn’t hear anything but the whistling inside his ears, couldn’t even hear Anja’s shouts, and as he turned to glare over the still lake, he realised that this could be the last time he saw it.

  A suited man climbed from the car, straightened up his jacket and adjusted his black tie. It wasn’t Dupont like Jack had prepared himself to expect, so it was somewhat of a relief when it wasn’t him. He wasn’t exceptionally tall but did carry the height to compliment his bulk. He removed his sunglasses, slipping them into his breast pocket; he had a constant frown like it had permanently belonged to his face and couldn’t be removed. A tattooed expression some might call it. He stepped onto the cobbles, ignoring Anja as she pulled at his arms so vigorously it could have dislocated from his shoulder, and she dug her heels into the beach like she was trying to drag him over. Eventually, she gave up her hold and plummeted to her knees, pleaded with him; streaks of mascara ran down her cheeks. When he still ignored her, she pushed her fingers deep into the cobbles until she could feel the sharpness they provided, grazing her skin, prizing her nails lose from her fingertips. She grabbed a handful of stones, removing her hand from the beach and thought for a moment about throwing them at the man. But she didn’t need to think about it too long, and simply released her grip. She had been holding the stones so tightly that her skin had broken and blood trickled from her palm.

  Lucy came outside, too, staring dagger-eyed at the man as she helped her mother to her feet, although she never knew who he was and what he was here for. Jack lunged forward but stopped as he noticed the warning Anja was giving him as though she knew that this man would do damage, would probably kill him: kill Anja and Lucy, too. And out here in the middle of nowhere, their bodies wouldn’t be discovered for some time.

  But Jack stood firm as the man approached him. He had a snarled look on his face, thick lips that curled at the one edge, an expression where a younger Jack wouldn’t need to think again about wiping it away. Jack felt like he was being laughed at from behind those eyes. As Jack passed, Anja tried to hang onto his arm. He stopped, gave her the benefit of the doubt, but he wasn’t scared of him. Francis had invested too much in him to kill him now—all for nothing.

  Five and a half million dollars.

  He was confident of that at least. It was the lives of Anja and Lucy that worried him.

  The man stopped. “Francis Dupont requests your presence, Jack Monday,” he said. His voice had no feeling like it had all been scripted, a routine played out time again until he got it right.

  “Now? We’re—I mean, the cake—they’ve just made cake,” is all he could say in his defence, a slur of words to defuse the inevitable. But he stood tall and pushed past the man, aided his girls, making sure they weren’t hurt.

  “You must go, Jack,” Anja whispered to him, clutching at the side of his face, stroking his cheek. “I love you,” a look of hatred towards the man, “but you have to leave!”

  Lucy said, “Dad? What’s happening?” She turned to her mum for an answer. “Mum, where’s dad going?”

  Anja told her, “It’s all okay my baby. Everything’s going to be fine—don’t you worry.” Then she drew herself closer to Jack, Lucy behind her as if she was protecting her from him. She said to him, “Think of us, right now, Jack. Dupont needs you, but that man over there, he’ll kill your daughter and he’ll kill me. I know it! We are nothing. You are everything. So, you have to leave.”

  “I can’t,” Jack admitted. “I just can’t leave you. What if—” he began to say.

  Anja put in, “But you have to. I know you do; you know you do. Maybe because of the circumstances he’ll have a heart.”

  “What circumstances? You know, don’t you? You know what’s going to happen; then again, you always have, haven’t you?”

  “We must leave—immediately,” the man replied firmly, free from any option. There was no depth to his voice—no emotion—it was bled dry.

  Jack turned to the lake; he feared this was the last time he would see it. He understood what had to be done. And despite not believing this day would ever come, he had to look reality in the face.

  “We leave in five,” the man told him before waiting outside the car. “Say your goodbyes.”

  And that kind of sealed what Jack was thinking. Say your goodbyes? It could have been said in innocence, an everyday statement, but it was the way in which the man lingered on the word goodbye, a deep growl suspended in the back of his throat. Jack suspected he was being laughed at, too. And as the man removed his glasses from his jac
ket pocket, he sneered at Jack, and even more so at Anja.

  Perhaps he should have lived through the odds the Brown brothers would have given him. Although, if he had, he could have been dead years ago. He would not have loved Anja. He would not have known he was capable of being a father.

  At least Francis at given him that chance.

  As Jack held Anja in his arms and Lucy held onto him, the lake was peaceful and inviting. If his family could have read his mind, he believed they would have followed him into that lake.

  10

  Francis Dupont stood in the front entrance. He wore a black tuxedo, hair combed to the side. He had managed his age quite well given he was twenty years older, although his eyes were wrinkled at the corners, but not too severe. If not for his eyes, however, there was no hint that he had aged at all. He smoothed down his suit and descended down the steps with the spring of a man in his twenties. The driver was climbing out the car, but Francis beat him to the car door and opened it.

  “Jack Monday,” he blasted, offered his hand to help him out the car. “Guest of honour!” He sounded giddy, in fact, child-like. “This is a very happy birthday, isn’t it! And you look delicious, I might add—very healthy indeed,” he bowed his head courteously. “Anja has made you the man I had hoped you would be, and more I am told.”

  He frowned, climbed out the car; Francis was holding onto his arm and protecting his head against the door frame.

  “A daughter, I am informed! What is her name? I trust her to be as beautiful as her father?”

  Jack paused, stared at Francis questioningly. He said, “Lucy.” Although he suspected he already knew.

  “Ah, Lucy—Lucy, Lucy, Lucy—and she is as healthy as you are, is she not?”

  Why would he want to know that? “We try our best,” he told him simply, immediately regretting it, because that feeling was there again; something wasn’t quite right.

  “Good, good. I may have a use for her. I’ll arrange a medical.” He waved his hand through the air, before resting his hand on Jack’s rear. Then he removed it, slapping him on his back instead. There was a long pause and he stared at Jack as though he was admiring him, or else awaiting reaction. In fact, he took a step back to invest a better look. The glint in his eyes was worrying, and Jack was reminded of the time twenty years ago when Francis had been on his knees and was caressing his thighs, pushing them wider apart. He had felt as if he had wanted something more from him, and he had that same feeling now.

  But the most disturbing thing of all was the comment he gave about Lucy. It was like he had a reason for her, too. And then it made Jack think of another possibility. What if it hadn’t been about him all along? What if it was about Lucy? What interest would Francis have in his daughter?

  Eventually, Francis said, “Let’s not wait on the doorstep, Jack Monday. We’ll catch our death. And a cold body is no fun at all. There are many people waiting to make your acquaintance.”

  “Oh?”

  “Of course! They have waited twenty long years for this day. Other very important people in our society. Not nearly as important as you, though.”

  There it was again. That unsettling feeling bubbling away in Jack’s stomach. “They’ve been waiting for my birthday?” He couldn’t comprehend what he was being told. Why would other people be waiting for his birthday? Other people that weren’t nearly as important as Jack. It was all bizarre.

  Francis pivoted at the door, studied him from top to toe, and said, “Yes—quite.” He frowned, amused. “She never did tell you, did she? I thought that, given your relationship, she would have broken her promise to me.” He smirked disturbingly, and he seemed in thought for a moment. “Never mind.”

  Jack followed Francis into the house, walking across the symbol that was as black as when he had first stepped upon it. They diverted left at the staircase. He looked to the right, down the corridor and at the closed door he and Francis had discussed his future behind. Nothing had changed. The paintings still climbed the walls as though making their escape through the skylight. The vases stood tall at the foot of the staircase. “What’s your secret?” The smell of cigar smoke and cigarettes stung the back of his throat, a contrast to his current lifestyle.

  “Secret?” There were double doors at the end of a short corridor. Jack could hear muffled voices and laughter from behind the dark oak, and even more distantly, the tinker of a tune he hadn’t heard before: the softness of a violin playing.

  “You haven’t changed a bit. You look like I just saw you yesterday.”

  Francis laughed heartily. “Perhaps we did!” he jested. He spun around, walking backwards, although continuing to push towards the sound of music. “I eat well,” and then he had to think. “I eat differently.” He pronounced every letter of the word, differently, as though it had meant something. “After all—you are what you eat, are you not!” He turned back again, stopped at the doors, both hands gripping the brass handles, ready for a dramatic entrance as he pushed them open. But before he did, he paused for a moment, then said in a low voice, a serious voice, “This is it, Jack Monday. This is what I want of you. This isn’t just for me—this is for all my guests behind this door. They’re waiting for you.”

  “This is what? I don’t understa—” But Francis didn’t allow him to finish, pushing the doors open with exaggerated force. There were eighteen people stood in the room, talking…laughing. They were dressed formally, the gentleman in their black tuxedo’s; Jack noticed a couple wearing white suites. The women wore dresses of various colours. Dupont’s wife and children were there, too. They too had confusingly maintained their youth. Michael was dressed in white, whilst Florence was dressed in a pleated jade dress. She presented herself to Jack with a luscious smile. Their mother was glamorously clothed in black, which trailed across the floor and was open at the front to expose slim legs.

  When the guests saw Jack, they all turned and began to clap. Florence blew him a kiss, and those erotic memories flooded back into his mind, rekindling those wicked thoughts he wished to forget. Dupont walked through like he was the king of his castle. And the guests appreciated him for his status—respect was clearly written on their faces. But their eyes seemed to tell a different story: they were afraid.

  Francis waved his arms to prompt his guests and, following his lead, they started to sing:

  For he’s a jolly good fellow,

  For he’s a jolly good fellow,

  For he’s a jolly good fellow,

  And so say all of us!

  They all followed him in song, not because they wanted to, but because they had to. Then they stopped and began clapping, because Francis had started clapping, and through the noise, Jack found time to look around the room, look at the guests’ faces, look beyond them.

  What he saw had horrified him even more so than any story he had heard about the Brown brothers. To the left of where he stood, in front of each of the three windows with their curtains drawn, were three wheelchairs with naked men sitting upon them. Their heads were shaven, the tops of their skulls removed. Through a door to the far right of the room, a gentleman in white overalls pushed a fourth wheelchair towards the others where, again, a naked man was seated. He was like the others, the top of his skull absent, his brain glistening as it caught the lights of the chandelier. They all had a bewildered, almost dumb expression, scarlet trickling down onto pasty skin from where the bone had been sawn. The fourth was positioned within an equal distance of the others, the parking brake placed on his chair, and before the gentleman could leave, he pulled out a handkerchief from his back pocket and made sure that each of the men’s faces were clean from blood.

  The applause had stopped for some time. Jack couldn’t steal his eyes away from the men in the wheelchairs.

  Francis put his arm around him, pulled him closer. “Would you like a piece?” He pounced over to the chairs where they sat, pulled out a knife and fork from a container close to them. He stood behind the chair, grinned at Jack, then pieced the f
ork into the naked man’s brain. With the other hand, he started to cut out a section. The man’s left eye twitched as Francis cut away a piece, and then he parked the knife into his left shoulder. The man wailed, but not for long. Francis went around to the front of him, brain pitched onto the fork, and all he had to do was stare at him.

  The man was silenced.

  Francis delivered the fork to Jack, feeding him the brain.

  Jack swiped his arm away. He looked both confused and sickened, although he couldn’t refrain from looking at the men, and at the piece of brain Francis was now inserting into his own mouth. He swallowed, cleared his throat like he was about to vomit, and put the back of his hand over his mouth, eventually turning away. “You sick fuck!”

  Francis raised his eyebrows, but he wasn’t offended. He grinned at Jack, stopped a waitress offering beverages, handed Jack a glass of Scotch from the tray. “This isn’t a test, Jack Monday. Knock it back like a good man. Calm those nerves.”

  Jack stared into the glass. He wasn’t supposed to drink alcohol; that was one of the rules. So was this another test? Francis had said otherwise, although it could have been a lie: a trick for him to fail. He looked up at the men sitting naked in the chairs. Blood had started to flow into their eyes. One man seemed in shock and trembled pathetically with emotion, but with his wrist tethered under his legs, he couldn’t wipe away the tears. Jack turned to the glass, perplexed by such a crude display, and muttered, “Sick fuck,” before devouring the beverage. He could take no more, charged the glass against the floor, and decided to gamble with his chances against those creatures that watched from behind the trees.