The torch snapped off and somebody started running. Jack stood where he was, trying to focus on what was ahead of him, blinking away the brightness. As he did, something like a ten-pin bowling ball struck him in the stomach at about sixty kilometres an hour. Jack doubled over, groaning.
Whoever had head-butted him tried to shove Jack aside and scramble past, but the shelves were narrow there, between Classics, Religion and History. Blindly, Jack managed to grab hold of the flap of a jacket. He grimaced and pulled, letting his weight fall to the floor. The assailant remained on his feet but Jack forced him to bend over. The man writhed and flayed. Jack held on. He tried to curl an arm around the man’s legs and trip him up. Elbows and fists rained down, mainly catching Jack in the arm and shoulder, but a couple stung the side of his head. Then Jack remembered his suit and felt a surge of anger. He pulled harder on the jacket and as he did so lifted himself up a little off the floor. His head came up above the level of his hands. Just high enough for the guy to get a good look at it.
A terrific pain burst in the middle of Jack’s face: his nose exploded like a ripe tomato. Wet warmth began to spread around the general area. He let go of the jacket, collapsed to the floor, and put his hands to his face.
“Stupid fucker,” barked a thin, angry voice.
Jack was grabbed by the lapels of his jacket. He blinked and looked up. A dark face was bent over him: he could just see the whites of the man’s eyes, glazed blue-grey in the weak light of the street lamps outside.
“Should’ve stayed at home, eh?”
Jack tried to breathe, but his nose was full of hot gravel.
The man pushed Jack away and straightened up. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a knife.
Jack caught a glimpse of the blade, liquid silver like the flash of a fish in murky water. “Oh, shit!” He tried to get to his feet. Another punch to the head stopped him, though he managed to slip the force of the blow away from his face with his arm.
“Should’ve stayed at home —”
The back door to Susko Books swung open and banged against the wall. A corridor of muted, night-time city light spread down the aisle of books. The man with the knife turned and looked towards the rear of the shop. Jack squinted at the face of his attacker: it was the son of a bitch who had tried to sell him the stolen books earlier that day.
“You there?” called out the guy with the mobile from the street. His voice was frail and nervous. “Hello?”
Jack filled his lungs and climbed to his feet. “Over here!” The intruder swung around. His arm shot out. The knife blade reached out in a pointy curve. Jack back-pedalled but found a bookshelf. Frantic, he tried to push himself along the uneven spines. He did not get far.
An instant later, a hot stripe drew itself briefly across his stomach, just about where his appendix would have been if he still had it. The moment his hand went there, he could feel dampness seeping through his shirt. Jack Susko slipped down the bookcase to the floor again.
The assailant ran towards the back door. Somebody swore and then there were scuffling footsteps and a crash and then nothing. A few moments later the young guy from the street walked in, stepping cautiously through the shop.
Jack sat himself up and leaned against the bookshelf. “There’s a light switch just beside the door.”
“Shit, are you all right?” The guy ran over.
“I hope so. Did you get hold of the cops?”
“They’re on their way.” He knelt down beside Jack. “The fucker just rammed past me!” he said. Then he took a better look at Jack. “Oh, shit!”
Jack pressed down where the knife had slashed him. “Reckon you could grab the towel from behind the counter? Should be on a shelf there somewhere.”
“Yeah, sure, sure.”
Jack put his head back. He turned and let it hang over his left shoulder. The shop lights flickered on, fluorescent tubes popping with harsh blue light, and he closed his eyes from the glare. When he opened them, he noticed a book sticking out a little from the shelf, just there beside him. He turned his head a little more and read the spine: After We Die, What Then? by George W. Meek.
Nothing like a good sign at the end of a bad day.
“This is Detective Peterson,” said one of the police officers. “He’ll need to ask you a few more questions.”
Detective Geoff Peterson was a tall man in a plain navy-blue suit. He had a wide face, pale complexion and small, dry blue eyes set close together. The remains of acne scars dappled his cheeks. His close-cropped sandy hair was receding in a neat V from his forehead, and his ears stuck out from his head. They were fleshy, like oysters, and large enough to pick up FM radio signals. His hands were in his pockets and he stared down at the end of his plain, light blue tie, brooding. Absently, he scratched the back of his head. Then he rubbed his face like a man who could do with some sleep.
As Jack watched him, the detective lifted his head and looked straight at him. His eyes caught Jack square, like headlights flicked onto high beam. His face was set firm. And then he winked. Surprised, Jack looked away. What the hell was that about? Peterson kept his eyes on him for a moment longer and Jack felt them crawling over his face, scrutinising him. It was not a nice feeling.
A uniformed police officer waited beside the detective with a notepad. Jack sat uncomfortably in a chair that had been brought out from behind the counter. The ambulance officers had cleaned him up, stuck a cold pack on his face, and dressed the knife wound. It was not deep, but a few stitches up at St Vincent’s Emergency ward were recommended. Jack had already answered questions and given a statement and was keen to get home, but now Detective Peterson was here and he wanted to go over a few things.
“Is this going to take much longer?” asked Jack, irritated. He had swallowed a couple of painkillers, but his head still felt like an egg in boiling water.
Peterson grinned, but the smile vanished before taking hold. “So you arrived about what time?” he said, as though they were halfway through a conversation. He squinted at Jack like a schoolteacher who already knew the answer to the question.
“I don’t know exactly.” Jack took the cold pack off his nose. “Sometime between eight-thirty and nine, I suppose. Whatever time it was when the guy from the street called you. You should know when he rang.”
Peterson did not respond. He paced around a little. The uniformed police officer stood perfectly still and scribbled in his notebook.
“And you say nothing was taken?”
“I don’t know yet. He smashed my pen mug, though.”
Peterson took one hand out of his pocket and stroked his tie, running a finger down it smoothly, like a cut-throat razor over a strap. “I don’t suppose there’d be much cash lying around here, would there?” he said, raising his eyebrows on the word cash. “I mean, what’s a second-hand book set you back. A dollar fifty? A couple of bucks? You’d have to sell a few to get a stash together.” He nodded, agreeing with himself. “Take a while.”
Jack did not answer.
The detective stood up straighter, pushed his chin out a little and carefully adjusted his tie. “Do you have a safe?”
“No.”
“Cash box?”
Jack laughed and then grimaced because it hurt. “Shoe box,” he said.
“Ah, I see. And how’s trade been?” Peterson’s tone was cool, conversational, but full of pins, like a cheap business shirt.
“Fine.” Jack noticed the uniformed officer had put his notebook away.
Peterson nodded. “What days do you bank?”
“Whenever I get a hundred bucks together,” said Jack. “Usually the autumn solstice.”
“That’s pretty funny,” said Peterson. He did not laugh. His voice wore steel-capped boots and stepped all over Jack. He slipped his hands into his pockets again and leaned back against the counter.
Jack had to turn a little to keep his eyes on him. The slash across his stomach burnt.
“So what I want to know is why somebody would break into a second-hand bookshop in the first place?” The detective looked up at the ceiling as he spoke, as though he was thinking out loud. Then he looked at the police officer there beside him. “I mean, really, what could you want? Obviously there’s no money. Just old books.”
“Rare books?” said the officer, as if he had struggled to think of the answer.
Peterson flashed a grin and looked quickly at Jack. “Doesn’t look particularly antique in here though, does it?” He checked out his shoes and then brushed something off his pants. “Any rare books, Mr Susko?” he said, still smiling. “Anything worth more than half-a-dozen dollars in here?”
Jack shifted his weight onto his left buttock. His nose throbbed. “Not today.”
“So why would our friend take the risk? If you’re going to smash a door and have no qualms about pulling a knife, why not a jewellery store? A bottleshop or a newsagency? Even a café would give you a better return.”
Jack had started to dislike Detective Geoff Peterson about five minutes ago. The feeling was now taking root like a noxious weed. He put the cold pack down and reached over the counter for his cigarettes. He put one in his mouth and then struck a match against the box. Before lighting it, he paused. “Maybe if you catch him,” he said, “you could ask him.”
Peterson shot a look at Jack. If it had been a bullet, it might have grazed his ear.
Jack lit the cigarette and tossed the spent match onto the counter. He drew back and then exhaled slowly, watching the detective through the smoke.
“But I was wondering if you had any ideas, Mr Susko,” said Peterson, smoothly, flattery lining his voice like artificial sweetener. “Think about it. There’s nothing to steal, but he brings a knife and attacks you.” Peterson looked at the officer again. “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”
“About what?” said Jack. He was starting to feel like he needed a lawyer.
Peterson grinned. “You say you recognised the man?”
Jack tapped ash into the palm of his hand. He could see where Peterson was going with his questions. It was starting to annoy him. “Could you pass me the ashtray over there?” he said, pointing.
The uniformed police officer slid it across so that Jack could reach. Jack brushed the ash from his palm into it and then smoothed the tip of his cigarette against the aluminium side of the ashtray. “Yes, I’ve already told you. He was in earlier today.”
“And a week or so ago, too, you said?”
“I think so.”
“What for?” asked Peterson, sternly.
Jack kept his voice calm. “He was trying to sell me stolen books.”
“Was this the first time or had you used him before?” Detective Peterson was getting a little nasty.
Jack closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He could feel the Panadeine Forte the ambulance guys had given him finally beginning to work. The day was catching up with him, lapping at his body in long, foamy waves. It was not an unpleasant sensation. “He’s my main supplier.”
“I wouldn’t joke, Mr Susko.” Peterson took out his keys, looked at them and then slipped them back into his pocket. “Do you owe anybody any money?” he said.
“Does that include my grandmother?”
Peterson smiled, like a croupier about to take all Jack’s chips. “Only if she’s capable of sending a guy around with a knife.”
“Well, she always says I never come around. They can get crazy, old people.”
“We’ll be in touch, Mr Susko.”
Jack looked over at the uniformed police officer. “Can I grab a lift to the hospital?”
“Can’t you drive yourself?”
“Not without a car.”
The police officer glanced at Peterson.
“You could always lend me one,” added Jack.
The detective frowned but nodded to the officer. “Okay.”
“Oh, thanks ever so much,” replied Jack.
The officer walked off. Detective Peterson came over and stood beside Jack. He carefully buttoned the middle button of his coat. Without looking at Jack, he said: “Susko. That’s an interesting name. Be hard to forget.”
Jack drew on his cigarette and then tapped it into the ashtray. “Cost me my job in espionage.”
“Kind of rings a bell for me.”
Jack looked up at Peterson and watched him pull at his tie a little, loosening it. He noticed a shaving rash just above the detective’s collar. He hoped it had been irritating him all day.
“That’d be my uncle,” he said, deadpan. “Harry Susko and the Sausage Boys. They were big in the seventies. Cabaret. They had a fantastic piano accordion player.”
“No, I don’t reckon that’s it.” Detective Peterson shook his head. “It’s right on the tip of my tongue. But I just can’t remember. Susko. Susko.” He scratched his chin. “I suppose it’ll come to me later.”
Jack put a hand on the counter and slowly stood up. “Hope it doesn’t keep you up all night.”
Peterson rubbed his hands together. “Goodnight, Mr Susko. Careful with that cut.”
The officers were finishing up. Jack walked gingerly behind the counter and looked into the rubbish bin. He glanced at the police and then carefully reached in. His copy of Entropy House. The bottom corner was lightly singed black from the bite of a flame. He brushed at it, then rubbed the greasy stain between his fingers. It smudged grey. He wondered if Hammond Kasprowicz would notice. Jack would be sure to point it out.
It was after 11.00 p.m. There were two other people in the waiting room at St Vincent’s Hospital Emergency ward. A dark-haired twenty-something, dressed in a sweaty white T-shirt and faded jeans, sat passed out in one of the plastic chairs, star-fished, his limbs and head spilling awkwardly over the edges as though he had been shot. His friend — obviously still buzzing from whatever they had taken — nodded his head and drummed his knees and chewed gum beside him. Occasionally he leaned over to his comatose friend and said: “You’ll be right. Just breathe.”
Good advice.
Jack stared at the double doors that led into the surgery. Finally, they swung open. A nurse called out: “Mr Susko?”
Jack followed her through. On the other side he found a few more people sitting around, waiting: some blank-faced, some worried, a couple asleep. He wondered if Monday nights were always like this. A handful of hospital staff milled around the narrow hall and walked in and out of doors. An orderly wheeled a machine down the corridor. A middle-aged woman in a pale blue uniform was refilling a water dispenser with plastic cups, while another mopped the area around it. And a little further down, Celia Mitten sat on a chair, flipping through a magazine.
The nurse told Jack to wait. He nodded and remained on his feet. As the nurse disappeared into a cubicle, he walked down towards Celia Mitten.
“Hello.”
Celia looked up and swallowed a quick gulp of air. “My God, what are you doing here?”
“Gang fight. What about you?”
She glanced behind her through an open door. The bed in the room was unoccupied. “It’s my father. He’s had a turn. I think it was a heart attack.”
“Is he okay?”
Tears rose in her eyes. Jack noticed she was wearing the same clothes as when he had seen her earlier that day.
“I don’t know,” she said, a little breathless. “They’ve taken him somewhere for tests.”
Jack saw a nurse coming towards him. Celia blew her nose into a crumpled tissue that she pulled out of her sleeve.
“Another package arrived with a note,” she said, trying to swallow her sobs. “I was with you when it arrived.”
Jack winced as he shifted his weight from one leg to the other. “What did the note say?”
Celia did not answer. The nurse had stopped beside them.
“This way, Mr Susko.”
Jack smiled at the nurse and then turned to Celia. “Wait for me, I won’t be long. Okay?” He patted her gently on the arm.
Celia Mitten nodded, wiping under her eyes with the tissue.
Jack was ushered into an examination cubicle. He sat down in a plastic fold-out chair. He could hear groaning next door and the odd squeak of rubber shoes, then an orderly telling somebody to take a deep breath. He lifted the corner of his shirt and looked down at the bandage on his stomach: blood had soaked through.
“Mr Susko? I’m Doctor Armstrong.” The doctor walked in. She dragged the cubicle curtains together with two swift movements. “After some stitches, I believe?”
She was young looking, maybe mid-thirties, and had sandy hair tied in a plait. Her eyebrows were darker, curved over large brown eyes that glistened in the stark, tiled room, lit by nauseating fluorescent light. A kind, soft face. She was slim, athletically curved, dressed in grey slacks, a white short-sleeve shirt and a pair of red Adidas sneakers.
“Shirt off and flat on the bed, thanks.”
“Oh, good. I was hoping you’d do all the work.”
The doctor smiled but continued with her preparations. “Do you want this to hurt, Mr Susko?”
“Whatever you’re into, Doc. Just hit me with some pethidine and go for it.”
Jack removed his jacket and shirt and lay down on a narrow bed. The plastic sheet beneath him popped thickly like bubble wrap. The doctor wheeled over a tray of bandages and bottles and long pointy instruments. Jack closed his eyes. He had never been good with this kind of thing.
It did not take long. He received a tetanus injection as well, which only added to his wooziness. He thanked the doctor, who handed him a strip of painkillers.
“One every three hours. Better if you can go longer, though. They’re strong.”
Jack moved out of the examination cubicle and walked down to where Celia had been. She was gone. When he asked at the front desk, they told him that she had already left with her father.
“Heart attack?”
The male nurse scoffed. “Panic attack.”