~8~

JACK SAT IN HIS CHAIR AND BOUNCED a small green rubber ball against the wall behind the counter at Susko Books. Thinking. Waiting. His head hurt with the effort. It would have been healthier if he were smoking.

Monday morning was always quiet. Jack usually caught up on his reading. He had started Treasure Island again, as he did every year, but not even old Robert Louis was able to distract him from his problems. He felt stalled, handbound: unable to contact Richard de Groot and unable to do anything about it.

He remained in the chair for about forty minutes, thinking up a storm and bouncing the ball. Wondering what de Groot was doing. Wondering about Shane Ferguson. He Treasure Island again.

My curiosity, in a sense, was stronger than my fear; for I could tried not remain where I was …

The door to Susko Books swung open.

‘Jack, how are you? Sorry I’m late.’ It was Richard de Groot.

Jack barely recognised him. He tossed his book onto the counter and stood up. Came around, slowly. De Groot was wearing a blue cap that said Kentucky Wildcats across the front, and a pale-pink Ralph Lauren polo shirt with the collar up. Three-quarter-length bright white shorts. Brown, soft-leather moccasins, tan-studio legs, no socks. There was a loose-fitting gold watch on his wrist that looked like it told the time simultaneously in three different galaxies. Regulation, rich-man-off-duty style. The kind that said: I look funny because I normally wear a suit. He stepped down into the shop and walked towards the counter.

‘Hello Richard,’ said Jack. ‘Not working today?’

De Groot ignored him. He stopped and put his hands on his hips. His eyes narrowed as he looked around. Short man with the big attitude. Then he glanced back over his shoulder towards the front door and nodded.

Through the glass, Jack saw another man. This guy was big: his chest looked like a retaining wall, his shoulders broad enough for children to ski on. He was wearing a light grey suit and a white tie. Everything tight. Buzz-cut blonde hair and sunglasses: perfectly still, just staring into the shop. He held the wrist of his left hand with his right, casually resting the grip against his stomach. He nodded back at de Groot, once, mouth set in a straight line. He looked annoyed. Jack wondered if it was because he could not fit through the front door.

‘Nice place,’ said de Groot, not even trying to sound like he meant it.

‘Thanks. Nice bodyguard.’

‘We have some business to complete.’

‘Is that a question or statement?’

‘I’m sorry I didn’t get here on Saturday. Had to rush off for the weekend. Palm Beach.’

‘I hate it when that happens.’ Jack glanced at the goon outside the front door. He still had not moved.

‘So,’ said de Groot. ‘Shall we do this?’

‘Come into my office.’ Jack gestured towards the counter.

Richard de Groot reached into his pocket: smug all over his tanned, clean-shaven face. He tossed a small wad of notes onto the counter, folded and held tight by a thin rubber band. ‘Better not leave it lying around.’

There was probably about five hundred dollars there, give or take. Jack looked at the money and then at de Groot. Then he looked down at the money again. Strangely, he was neither shocked nor surprised. As his eyes traced over the topmost note, the situation came into focus smoothly, with a dull, nauseating knowing.

‘Do you want to count it?’

Jack remained silent and continued to stare at the money. He was thinking a lot of things, though now it was mainly about the suited blond muscle man outside his front door, imagining the man had a thick Scandinavian accent.

De Groot leaned forward slightly, looking up from under the peak of his cap. ‘Hello? Anybody home?’

Jack turned to him. Said nothing.

‘I wouldn’t complain, Mr Susko. You’re lucky I even bothered to show up.’ He turned to leave. ‘Enjoy your bonus.’

Jack reached out and grabbed de Groot by the arm. He swung him around roughly.

‘Don’t be stupid, Mr Susko.’ De Groot looked down to where Jack had gripped him, as though there was a stain. ‘I don’t like being touched.’

‘I think you’d better get your wallet out.’

‘Really?’ Richard de Groot grinned and shook his head.

There was a noise: it was Jack’s fist landing in the middle of de Groot’s face, a snap ’n’ crackle right jab, clean as a gust of sea breeze. Right in the honker. Something had come over Jack and he liked it. Pity he knew that the feeling was not going to last.

Before it ended, he gave de Groot a left to go on with.

The South African hit the floor.

The front door opened. Sven the Destroyer walked into Susko Books. Or maybe it was Thor, God of Thunder.

Whatever. The air around him bristled with sparks.

De Groot was trying to stand up. ‘Get the prick!’

The immaculately suited bodyguard still had his sunglasses on. He was calm, expressionless, and surprisingly quick. He got behind Jack in a blur, wrapped an extremely thick arm around his neck, and pulled.

Jack grabbed the bodyguard’s arm with both hands and started to writhe around a little, attempting to wrestle it off: the effort only seemed to tighten the grip around his neck. Seconds later, oxygen stopped flowing into his lungs. Another second, the muscles in his body started to drown in some kind of acid and his face felt like it was trying to peel itself off his skull.

‘Son of a bitch!’ De Groot held a handkerchief to his bleeding nose. He watched Jack struggle and swore some more. He blinked away some tears. Then he hawked up a mouthful of blood and spat it onto the floor of Susko Books. ‘Hold him.’

One to the guts. It hurt because Jack could not curl down over the punch.

‘What did you think, Susko? That I’d give you twenty thousand dollars for nothing?’ Another for luck.

Jack groaned. He wondered if the guy holding him had started reading a book.

‘Now you don’t even get this.’ De Groot picked up the money on the counter and slipped it back into his pocket. He shook his head lightly, dabbed at his bloody nose and looked around Susko Books. ‘Jesus. Twenty grand,’ he said, almost astounded. ‘For what? Being in the wrong place at the wrong time? As though it was my fault.’ De Groot tried to breathe through his nostrils and winced. ‘Fuck!’

He spat on the floor again.

Noises were coming out of Jack’s throat he was not trying to make. Like a wet balloon going down. He hoped the wind did not suddenly change and permanently set the grimace on his face. It would only add another thing to Jack’s list, which set out clearly in point form his new, glowing hatred of de Groot and his family and every one of its extended relations, connected either through blood, marriage or employment.

Richard de Groot flicked his hand. The bodyguard let go of Jack’s neck. He collapsed to the floor. He gulped down the stale air of Susko Books like it was spring water in a glass full of ice.

‘Let’s go, Lewis.’

The two men left. Jack tried to yell some abuse but his voice came out as barely a squeak. He struggled to his feet. As he stumbled towards the door, logic and the laws of physical inferiority told him to stay down and keep perfectly still, breathe slowly and act dead and pretend it never happened, just in case it happened again any time soon. But adrenaline had a hold of him. He climbed up the steps and onto the street just as de Groot was getting in behind the wheel of an illegally parked white Maserati Quattroporte. Lewis sat in the back, sunglasses still on, mouth a hard line, face a promise of cold pain. When he saw Jack through the window he simply waved his index finger: Don’t. Jack heard the engine kick over. Somebody in the passenger seat leaned across Richard de Groot’s lap and looked at Jack. It was just a second, barely even that, but he saw her.

Larissa.

What the hell?

Jack had never really believed that it was a small world. As far as he was concerned, the world had always been huge. But as he stood on dirty old York Street and watched de Groot’s Maserati tear into the corner, he suspected he was going to change his mind in the next couple of minutes.

It took about three and a half. And then Jack knew for sure: everything was connected. The earth was a grain of sand.