Chapter One

She whimpers. It’s a pathetic sound, one informing me we’ll have to leave shortly. I try to focus my attention to the monitor and ignore this subtle plea. Who on this God green earth thought making computers mandatory was a good idea? I much preferred the old paper system Mr Horton allowed me to use during the last three years.

The sound of sniffing takes my attention. There’s no doubting she’s needy.

“In a minute,” I scoff.

My cheek is lapped wet from her tongue.

“I said, in a minute.”

Logging in the last job for the day is interrupted when I turn my eyes downward, to find my lap no longer bare. “Why must you be this way?” My eyes connect with two small brown buttons. She’s cute. There’s no denying it. “Come on then. Home time.”

Her tongue laps my mouth.

“We have to do something about your breath, Roxie. It’s rotten.”

She licks me once more.

Taking her under my arm, I rub my hand crazed throughout her hair. “Maybe a dog wasn’t such a good idea.”

Roxie nuzzles her head into the crook of my neck.

“A Poodle is not a good look for a big tank like me either, you know.” I couldn’t leave Roxie abandoned out in the street. Only a heartless jerk would do such a thing in our neighbourhood. “Righto, I get it, you want attention. Keep your tongue in your mouth, will you?”

I switch off the light and lock the door.

“Tank.”

The calling of my name has me scanning the property.

“Tank,” he calls again.

“Alan, is that you?” I stare out into the empty yard. A dull light in the distance has me cocking my eyebrows.

“Yeah, it’s me.” Alan steps into my line of sight.

“What are you still doing here?”

“I stayed behind to do a good clean-up of the workshop. I had nowhere to be tonight.” His hands are in the pockets of his navy coveralls as he rocks on his heels.

I’m impressed. For a fifteen-year-old, he’s showing glimpses of dedication. I like it.

“I saw you locking up and I wanted you to know I was still here. I’ll make sure to switch off the light back there and lock up … You can trust me.”

“Would you like me to give you a hand?”

He shakes his head.

“Okay, kid. You did a good job today. Maybe I should give you a chance to work the piping moulds by yourself tomorrow.”

“I can do it. I know I can. I won’t let you down.”

“I believe you.”

“Goodnight, Tank.” He smiles.

“Night, kid.”

I wave Alan off and begin the mundane task of dragging my feet over the pavement. “Another long shift. You’ll get used to them, Rox.”

Roxie nuzzles into my neck further, causing my skin to itch more intensely. Layers of dirt and dust particles clog my every pore. How I hate this itch. No amount of scrubbing relieves the irritation it brings. Scratching my skin raw is a daily occurrence … bloody steel mills.

The pavement soon turns to dirt and before long, my keys rattle against my palm as the stubborn lock turns over and the door swings wide. My shitty one-bedroom apartment in a part of town where crime is an hourly incidence is as black as soot. It’s a reminder of my solitary existence. After six years, I thought I would’ve found a more settled and comfortable existence. Turns out I was kidding myself.

Flashing red and blue lights cast shadows against inadequate furniture before sirens ring loudly.

Bang!

Another gunshot—another likely death. This is a normal part of life here in the west end of Hoffman. I don’t even jump at the sound. Instead, I laugh hard. Sick? Yes. Frightening? Not anymore. I assume some drug dealer got screwed over and some punk blew his brains out over grimy flooring.

Three police cars and an ambulance pass by with sirens blazing before stopping two doors down at the usual rundown shithole, screaming trouble. I stare in wait as weapons are drawn and words are exchanged.

“We have you surrounded. Lower your weapons and come out with your hands up,” a copper shouts, with an agitated tone.

“Like that’s going to happen,” I mutter under my breath, amused.

“Fuck off, pig,” a loud bellowing voice calls back.

“This has been going on for the last thirty minutes. At least they came, I guess.” Tessa’s voice alerts me to her presence.

I take one step back before turning my eyes upwards to her window located above where I stand.

“Arseholes,” I hiss.

“This neighbourhood is getting worse by the day, Fin. We’re definitely going to end up dead living here.”

I don’t reply.

“How was work?” The same line is delivered every night. It’s casual in passing, but always caring.

I study her aged face by dull lamplight, something I do often to record any major changes in her complexion, before shifting my attention to the messy grey hair framing her face and her rounded eyes, which often seemingly seek the companionship of another.

“Ms Simon, you’ve been living here far too long, you crazy old bird. Maybe it’s time for a change of scenery?”

“No money means no choice, Finlay … You know this. Nothing’s changed.”

“I suppose not.”

“It’s better than living on the street,” she continues. “These little shits don’t scare me. You know I’m not easily rattled. I might be seventy-nine, but I can still fire a weapon like a well-aimed teenager. Plus, a bullet to my head would be a quick way to die. I’ll take it over the cancer any day.” Tessa delivers her message succinctly. She looks innocent and sweet, but I believe her balls are much bigger than mine.

Chuckling briefly, I point towards the surrounded house where several of our neighbours have their heads out the window, staring in the same direction as Tessa and me. “You going to watch the show then?”

“Don’t I always?” She cackles. It’s a deep and husky smoker’s sound, which quickly turns into a coughing fit.

“I’ll leave you to it then. Night, Tess.”

The door closes behind me before I switch on the light that flickers every minute. I should replace it, but what’s the point? It will blow again in a few days. This place is a shithole. Hell, I’m not even sure if it’s regarded as a safe structure for a human to squat in, yet it has a roof and four walls, so it’s better than sleeping in a ditch.

A dirty brown two-seater lounge sits at the back of a small narrow room. Turning sideways, I place Roxie on its top and then squeeze through the narrow opening the couch allows, to pass through an arched opening leading into the kitchenette. Roxie yaps at my heels as I move to flick on another light switch.

“Hungry, girl? Me too.” Her distressed circling between my feet has me clamping the bench tightly to prevent a fall. “Settle down or you’ll give me a concussion.”

Roxie doesn’t stop. She commences her usual jump up my jean leg as I bend over and remove a meal for one out of the freezer.

“A dog was not a good idea, Rox. Not a good idea at all,” I mumble, pulling back the plastic covering on the meal as per the instructions, before throwing it into the microwave. “Five minutes. It’s five minutes away. Settle down.”

The smell of burning plastic has me snarling as I rip open the microwave door and wave away smoke. Juggling the melted plastic, I groan outwardly before throwing the pre-packaged dinner for one into the sink. “Fuck you!” I growl, twisting on the rusty tap, allowing lukewarm water to splatter from its nozzle over the overheated skin on my hand. “I need a microwave that’s not a hundred years old. I need a fucking decent feed and a cold tap with running cold water.” Normally it’s the hot tap that causes grief in a household. Not in mine. It’s this fucking cold one. No matter what I do it will not work. I need to get out of this dump. Kicking the splintered cabinetry below the bench top, I shout, “Roxie, will you back off with the yapping? You’re giving me a headache. Scat. Go, get out!”

Roxie bolts, her feet barely touching the dinted unpolished flooring in retreat.

Testosterone can travel through the blood of a man, down-on-his-luck, at rapid speed, and as I draw my hand back I don’t hesitate to slam it hard into the fibro wall. A fist-sized hole becomes the result.

“Fuck my life,” I whisper with an ache so gut-wrenching it has air whistling between my grinding teeth. I glance toward the cracked glass pane of the window above the sink, whilst running my hands over the top of my grimy brown hair that has grown longer than the spiked length I normally prefer.

“Good evening and welcome to Tuesday night’s lotto …” I startle at the voice blasting from the television.

“What? Roxie, are you lying on the remote again?” Squeezing back through the gap, I spy Roxie cowering in the corner of the lounge. “I don’t know what it is about you and this remote, but your tiny butt manages to sit on it without fail. Come here.” Scooping Roxie’s trembling body into my arms, I roll my eyes at her lack of guard-dog material and locate the remote swiftly, pushing the volume down. “Is there any point listening to the numbers, girl? Every week is the same shit. Maybe if I stopped buying lotto tickets we’d have a microwave that is not trying to explode in our faces every time we use it.”

Slade Banter, a man of complete power and great wealth flashes onto the screen. I growl at the sight of him. Every fucker wants to either date him or be him. I personally can’t stand the arse. Wide million-dollar smile. Perfectly groomed light locks. Suit you know costs more than everything I fucking own.

He places a finger under the chin of the chick who holds the balls up in presentation and says, “It’s a good evening to bring on the money.”

She flutters her eyelashes and I fake dry reach. He’s a mystical beast here in the slums. I like to think of him more as a pretentious arsehole … one I’d like to knock down a few pegs.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

“Here, you watch the numbers and report back then. I’m going to take this call,” I say as I drop Roxie back onto the couch.

Leaning against the doorframe, I take the outdated beige handset from the wall and twist my finger into the long, coiled cord. “Tank speaking.”

“How’s it hanging, Tank?”

“Little to the left, mate.”

“Left. Oh, left’s not good.”

I chuckle lowly.

“Bad luck when it’s hanging left—”

“Blocker, you’re not kidding …isn’t that how every day plays out in the slums?”

Blocker, also known as Maverick Holden, laughs loudly before hacking up a lung.

“You really need to lay off the fags. You sound like Tessa upstairs. Emphysema’s going to get you too.”

“Righto, Doctor Crossley.”

“What do you want? I’m sure you weren’t just calling to find out the positioning of my junk.”

He laughs dryly.

“Well?”

“Poker Friday night. You in?”

“Who’ll be there?”

“Just Sailor, me, Tardo, and Rance.”

“Sure. Count me in. Where?”

“Where do you want to play?”

“Your place? We all live in shitholes, so yours is as good as mine.”

“True dat. Sounds good. Hey, the missus just got home. I’m going to go see if I can get me a bit of lovin’. Friday, my place it is.”

“Missus?” I wonder who the lucky lass is sharing his bed this week.

“More flavour-of-the-week.”

“I thought as much.”

“There’s plenty of tail to get in this place. You should try it sometime. Come on, mate—two women in eight years … Your balls must be as blue as—”

“Shut up, will you?”

“Poker Friday, then?”

“Sure. Friday it is.”

“Seven p.m. Don’t be late.”

The line goes dead.

I drop onto the lounge, and it takes Roxie two seconds flat to curl up on my lap. Mangy dog. “How’d we go, girl?” Glancing towards the television, my heart momentarily stops. My eyes widen so far, my eyeballs dry. “No way.”

Seven. Twenty-one. Thirty. Forty-Two. Four. Eighteen and twelve.

“Get the fu—”

Roxie barks.

“Ssshhhh.”

She barks once more.

“Get off. I need to check the ticket.” Seven. Twenty-one. Thirty. Forty-Two. Four. Eighteen. Twelve. These have been the same six numbers I’ve played for the last two years, yet something tells me my recollection is wrong or maybe I’m desperate beyond measure.

It’s a struggle to remove my ratty wallet from my jean pocket. I’m not sure if it’s because I’ve lost my nerve, or if it’s the usual issue of the pocket being too compact a size for a big wallet. Flipping it into two halves, I exhale, and for just a moment, I think to pray. I’ve never prayed a day in my life, but maybe today is a day for an exception.

Dear God. Please let me win.