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.
26
'Mum says I have to go home before I can go to the beach with you guys.' Jerome sprawled on a mattress in the middle of Logan's bedroom floor.
'How come?'
'Gotta clean my room,' Jerome mumbled. 'She was absolutely spewing last night. She nearly wasn't going to let me come at all.'
Logan stretched on his bed, then hurled his pillow at Jerome's head. Jerome re-launched the pillow back at his friend, added his own pillow, and his doona, and then threw himself on top of the pile, punching into the pillow. Laughing and shouting, they ignored the thumping on the wall that came from Logan's parents' room.
'Get off, you idiot!' Logan managed to push Jerome off, toppling him back down to his mattress. 'You know Dad's gonna want to leave by about nine. What time is it now?'
'Shit! It's already seven o'clock. I told Mum I'd be back by now.' Jerome started pulling on his sneakers.
'I can ask my brother to give you a lift if you want,' said Logan doubtfully.
'Yeah, like he's gonna do that.' Jerome's voice was muffled as he pulled his pyjama top over his head. 'I can be back here in an hour if I leave right now.'
'Well, hurry up then.' Logan had already clicked on his TV and was surfing for the cartoons. Jerome's stomach gurgled with hunger and excitement as he unlatched the gate at Logan's house. It was boiling hot already, he thought as he walked through, forgetting to close it behind him. It was going to be great at the beach.
He looked around. It was always quiet around Logan's house, he thought. No-one was ever in the street. Logan had told him his dad didn't even know their next-door neigh-bours' names. The idea was bizarre to Jerome, who'd lived in the same house all his life and knew every person in every house in his street. And they all knew him. Sometimes it was cool living there. Every few months or something, they'd have a street party at the bottom of the cul-de-sac, and he'd be allowed to stay up till whenever. At those parties, he could get away with practically anything, because his mum and dad didn't like to yell in front of the neighbours. And at Christmas everyone tried to have better lights and shit decorating their houses. In Christmas week, it was like there were street parties every night. Last Christmas they'd even closed half the street off at the top of the cul-de-sac, and his dad and Mr Robotham had built a massive barbecue right in the middle of the road. Jerome had copped a hiding for nearly knocking it over when he'd come down the street on his belly on his skateboard. He laughed out loud now, thinking about it.
But at least Logan didn't have everyone knowing what he was doing all the time, he thought, staring at the neat houses. No-one was even mowing their lawn, or watering. Logan had told him his dad said everyone was too busy trying to pay their mortgage to talk to anyone else.
Jerome kicked a rock along as he walked, imagining he was Harry Kewell and the crowd was cheering his name.
Making a massive save from losing the rock down the drain, Jerome failed to notice the van stopped near the park.
27
Jamaal had reached the park at seven o'clock. The sun's rays had not yet reached this side of the quiet street. A seagull landed on his rear-vision mirror, hoping for leftover takeaway, begging for scraps. Disgusted by the creature's bright eyes, Jamaal smacked his hand on the glass and the bird flapped away.
There was no way of knowing whether the boy was still in the house. He knew he did not live there – the boy had rung the doorbell last night. Would he walk home alone? Had he left already? Would he leave with the owners of the house in a car? Jamaal knew the chances of seeing the boy alone again would be slim, but the feeling that had awoken when he had first seen him would not leave. Sometimes destiny provides.
So, when Jamaal saw the same blond hair and red T-shirt crossing the road straight towards him, he was not even surprised. The child had not seen him; he was busy playing with a stone on the road.
Jamaal felt the erotic throb of adrenalin that always surged through him before violence. He cracked open the door of his van. 'Excuse me, boy. Could you help me for a moment, please?'
Still no-one was around. Jamaal scanned the street and spotted nothing but the blond boy and the seagull.
Jerome looked up, a little startled. Shit, you scared me, he thought, but aloud he said, 'Huh?'
'I need some help for just a moment.' Jamaal smiled what he hoped was a friendly grin. 'My friend is not here yet, and I need someone to help me get some things out of my van.'
Jerome stood where he was in the middle of the road, his head on an angle. Was that the van from last night?
'They're not heavy,' tried Jamaal, sensing the boy's hesitation. 'I hurt myself.' He turned to the side, showed the still-wet bandage at the back of his head.
'Sorry, mister. I gotta go. I'm late already.'
Many of his friends would not have even answered this man, but Jerome's parents had taught him to answer adults when he was spoken to. But screw this, he thought. No way am I going to risk missing out on the beach to help this goose.
'Twenty dollars.' Jamaal had it in his hand, ready. 'It's just some tins and a ladder. It will take us five minutes, maybe less. Please, I am late for work already.'
