After school on Thursday I had my first shift at Give Me the Juice. Pericles’ Uncle Manos was short and barrel-chested, with massive guns from lifting melons. He never stopped smiling. His eldest son, Sam, was tall and serious and bore no resemblance to him. Pericles’ twin sisters, Helena and Christina, weren’t identical but their liberal application of dark eye make-up was. All of them wore a shirt with a different fruit design. I was given the banana shirt, still heavy with the odour of its previous wearer Stavros, whose badge Manos asked me to keep pinned on until I got my own. After my induction he said goodbye, leaving Sam in charge.
The first two hours were hectic. Sam and Pericles made juices and smoothies while the twins worked the counter. I wiped surfaces and rinsed containers with a high-pressure-hose gun. When service slowed, Pericles taught me how to make the drinks. It wasn’t rocket science, but the ingredients had to be measured and added in the correct order. ‘It might be stating the obvious,’ Pericles said, ‘but don’t forget to secure the lid before blending.’ He started untying his apron. ‘I’m taking my break now. Will you be okay on your own?’
‘A hundred per cent.’
The first three smoothies went smoothly. But making the fourth, a Boomberrytastic, I got distracted by the customer banging on about her nut allergy and pushed SURGE before securing the lid. >FWOOSH!< A crimson geyser hit the ceiling and splattered my shirt in pulped berries and frozen yoghurt.
‘Berries go boom!’ the twins said in unison. The customer looked like she’d witnessed a drive-by shooting.
I was still mopping up when Pericles returned and said, ‘I leave you for ten minutes and you’ve destroyed the joint.’
‘I forgot to secure the lid.’
‘Obviously, malaka!’ He cuffed the back of my head.
Despite the spill, Pericles was more chill than he was at school. When Sam took his extended break and left Pericles and me to make the drinks, we fell into a rhythm. The last two hours flew by. At 8.45, Sam told me I wasn’t required for close but I offered to stay and help anyway.
‘You won’t be paid for it,’ he said.
‘Not a problem,’ I said, and winked at Pericles. It was the least I owed him.
Dad had gone to bed by the time I arrived home, exhausted. Unusually, he’d left a message on a post-it note, saying that he was proud of my initiative and Pop Locke would’ve been too. Brushing and flossing my teeth, I felt a sense of relief that things might be settling at last.
I climbed into bed and felt a heavy drowsiness, the reward for performing physical labour. Then, right on the threshold of sleep, Homunculus whispered, ‘Your shirt needs to be washed, Stavros.’ I dragged my arse out of bed and carried my satchel to the laundry. Reaching in for the shirt, I felt something soft and fleshy. I tipped over the satchel. A mottled pink-and-grey thing resembling the bastard spawn of Alien dropped onto the tiles with a >THWAP<.
The sight and not-exactly-fresh smell of the amorphous, hairless creature instantly triggered dry-retching, propelling me to the balcony for fresh air. While out there recovering, I became concerned that the creature, though it lacked any obvious means of ambulation, might slither away and conceal itself somewhere in the apartment like an air-conditioning duct. Recalling that a liberal sprinkling of salt can kill a leech, I armed myself with a box of pink Himalayan crystals and returned to the laundry. But the thing hadn’t moved. It was still there, stuck to my shirt on the tiles. I prodded it with a mop handle and there was no response. Thinking it was dead, I knelt for a closer inspection.
It looked like a tongue – definitely not human, possibly bovine. I googled ‘cow tongue’ and it matched the images. Identification brought no relief. Fearing it might’ve come from a mad cow, I washed my hands with soap then antiseptic gel. How long had I been toting it around for? And how the hell had it entered my bag? I needed somebody to help me deal with it. I could hear Dad snoring. Maybe Pericles was still up? I turned my phone back on and found an SMS from an unknown number:
THIS IS WHAT WE DO TO INFORMERS!
My life had turned into a psychological thriller. Who’d sent the message? Probably Nads, or Starkey following his orders. He’s like a trained dog that occasionally bites its master. But how had he slipped the tongue in without being seen? Everybody knows he’s suspended. There’s no way he’d been anywhere near Crestfield. And I’d had my satchel with me all day.
The message was sent at 7.47 pm. I thought back over my shift. At 7.30 I’d gone for my break at Hungry Jack’s and later left my satchel under the table to refill my drink. I remembered it feeling heavier when I left. Where did he get the tongue? It was too big for a can. Do butchers sell fresh cow tongue? Maybe they’re back in fashion because of a MasterChef challenge? Who do those three think they are – the Crestfield fricking mafia? They were probably at Nads’ place now, having a laugh about it.
‘Or maybe Starkey followed you home?’ Homunculus said.
‘There’s no way Vince would let him in, and the lift wouldn’t work if he did.’
‘So stop panicking.’
‘Fear can only survive if you feed it.’
‘Correct. It must be confronted and destroyed,’ he said. ‘Go downstairs and check if there’s anybody lurking outside the building.’
I took the lift down to the lobby. Vince was on night shift. He asked why I was heading out so late and I told him I was buying milk. As I walked around the block, I saw nothing more antisocial than a businessman pissing against a wall in Pennys Lane, which hardly qualifies as unusual behaviour in this hood.
‘You forgot the milk,’ Vince said with a wink.
‘All out,’ I said and took the lift back up.
Defying my squeamishness I picked up the tongue, which was surprisingly rough, wrapped it in the real-estate section of the Sydney Morning Herald then dropped it down the garbage chute. I calmed myself with a breathing exercise and remembered that I still hadn’t washed the shirt. I returned to the apartment’s laundry, threw my shirt in the machine and selected HEAVY DUTY to kill any residual bacteria.
I got back into bed about 1 am. Three seconds after my head hit the pillow, Homunculus piped up yet again. ‘How dare that slimy little nicotine-stained-fingered shady shithole try to intimidate you with a cow tongue! Get up and call that number and don’t listen to any bullshit alibi.’
Without fully considering the wisdom of doing so, I called the number. It rang and rang. I was just about to cancel when somebody answered.
‘HELLO?’ he said.
‘I KNOW YOU PUT THE TONGUE IN MY BAG.’
‘WHAT THE FUCK? WHO IS THIS?’
‘DROP THE FAKE VOICE – I KNOW IT’S YOU. IT’S NOT MY FAULT YOU GOT BUSTED. I DIDN’T TELL ANYBODY.’
‘WHO IS THIS?’
‘WHO IS THIS?’ I mimicked his deep, gravelly tone. ‘WHO DO YOU THINK IT IS? MARY FRICKIN’ POPPINS? YOUR SCARE TACTICS HAVE FAILED AND IF YOU EVER PULL ANOTHER STUNT LIKE THAT, I’LL CALL THE POLICE.’
‘DON’T THREATEN ME YOU LITTLE ****!’ He called me a name that wasn’t Chester Hunt but started with a C and ended with U-N-T. ‘I DON’T KNOW WHO THE HELL YOU ARE, TALKING CRAZY SHIT AND WAKING UP MY WIFE. NEVER CALL THIS NUMBER AGAIN. DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME, CHESTER HUNT?’
‘Yes.’
‘SO HELP ME, IF YOU DO I’LL TRACK YOU DOWN AND RIP BOTH YOUR BALLS OUT OF THEIR BAG AND FEED THEM TO THE DUCKS. CHESTER HUNT!’
He hung up.
That hot-head needed anger management counselling, pronto. It definitely wasn’t Starkey on the other end – so who was it? Maybe Starkey had swiped someone else’s phone so that I couldn’t trace him? It wouldn’t be his first crack at phone theft.
At 1.30 am, still in a state of high-alert paralysis, I watched a televangelist called Benny Hinn banging on about the end of the world, and even though I agreed that it did indeed seem nigh, I didn’t give him any money. If Armageddon really is that close, my meagre financial assistance won’t help reverse it.
Friday was the last day of the goons’ suspension so I didn’t have to deal with them at swim clinic. To practise executing efficient tumble turns, we spent an hour in the pool doing forward rolls over the lane dividers.
Afterwards, Pericles and I headed to the Westfield food hall to eat before our shift. The massive videowall suspended in the atrium was showing footage of beautiful girls in flowing dresses running through a forest in slow motion. The leader turned back and smiled with perfect gleaming teeth, her dewy face taking up the entire screen. She held up her fingers in a peace sign, and the words appeared:
V: THE PRIVATE COLLECTION, BY VIENNA VORONOVA
Pericles was mesmerised. ‘Vienna Voronova!’ he said. ‘The world’s most perfect woman.’
‘I know. Mum’s bringing her out for a launch.’
‘Shut your mouth right now! Do you think she could get us in?’
‘Maybe,’ I said.
We bought some Turkish food and found seats outside. Famished after clinic, Pericles scoffed his kebab then eyed my half-eaten pide. ‘What’s up?’ he said. ‘You’re looking all around the place like somebody’s after you.’
‘It’s nothing,’ I said. Then, realising that the mere threat of having my tongue cut off had effectively silenced me, I told him about my grisly discovery last night and the ensuing phone call.
‘Ohmygod, that’s fully sick in the most literal sense. You have to report them.’
‘They put a tongue in my bag on the assumption that I’d blabbed. Imagine what would happen if I actually reported them and they found out.’
‘Maybe a horse’s head?’ He looked again at my plate. ‘Can I have your pide?’
‘It’s yours.’
Pericles took a massive bite and with his mouth full said, ‘We’ve got to beat them at their own game – intimidation. My cousin Angelo could have a little man-to-man talk with Starkey. Advise him to back off.’
‘Don’t tell anybody about the tongue. I’m going to act like it never happened and deprive them of knowing it got to me.’
‘It’s too late.’ He wiped the sauce from his mouth. ‘You made that mad-arse phone call last night.’
I remained on edge for the entire shift, imagining that I was being observed by one of the goons or maybe a stranger. Instead of offering to help Sam to close again, I left as soon as the clock hit 8.45. I didn’t want to stay a second longer than necessary.
I got the train back to Kings Cross Station and warily made my way back home. It was only a minute’s walk from there, but a lot can happen in a minute.