FATHERS & SONS

CHAPTER 2

Three a.m. Why did he always have to wake me up so early?

I scratched at the bites underneath my elbow, pushing down a yawn. It was better not to piss Papa off. Just be quiet, and watch. Watch him click the .45 ACP cartridges into its magazine, seat it against his palm and slam it into the gun, a series of clacks and clicks. I'd seen him do this for years.

I bent over and picked up Papa's travelling bag, already feeling along the length of his sawed-off double-barrelled shotgun beneath the zipper. Balancing the bag in my hands, I felt for a sharpened blade. The machete must have already been in the Mazda outside, maybe even more than one.

Papa slid forward on the couch, frown lines deepening in his brow as he gripped another gun. Another series of clicks and clacks, a quick twist of the firearm while he pulled the slide back along its rails. The guns were ready, and so was he.

Biting my lower lip, I reached for his holster, which was an awkward looking thing, with little threads sticking out along its length. Years ago, I'd asked him why he wore it, why he didn't slip the gun in his waistband. You know, like the movies me and Jimi used to watch. He'd thrown his head back, his laughter bouncing off the walls. I'd blow my balls off, he'd said at last, wiping his eyes. Jimi would laugh, and I would follow suit, desperate not to be left out. Seeing and hearing everything, understanding nothing.

It was better not to think of Jimi now. I needed to concentrate. Focus. This could be my last chance.

"So,' Papa said suddenly, pushing himself off the couch, kicking at a carton. "Kevwe calls me if anything goes wrong."

"Okay."

"She has complete control, do you understand me?"

"Yes."

He took the bag from my hands, and hefted it over his shoulder. Then he stared at me. "Complete control. I tell her what to do. She tells you. You do it."

I swallowed hard, but nodded my head. "Yes. I'll do everything she says."

But he didn't look away, his gaze hardening. "And if you run..."

"I...I...I won't. I swear-"

"I'll find out. And come running."

I clenched and unclenched my hands against my thighs. "Papa..."

"I'll find you."

I swallowed. "Yes, papa."

He pivoted awkwardly, the bag weighing him down. But he squared his shoulders, and headed for the door. I followed him, my eyes narrowing as he clasped his hand around the door knob.

I could do it. Catch him by surprise. Grab the bag, and hurl it at his bald head. Hit him again, and again. Then run so far and so fast that he'd never catch me. Never see me again.

Don't disgrace me.

Papa opened the door, and stepped out into the darkness. A few hours from now, our neighbors would shuffle out of battered concrete homes, and edge toward the street, toothbrushes hanging from their mouths, buckets on their heads. Then the whole street would come alive with the roars of motorbikes, and early morning chatter.

I had three days.

I closed the door after him quickly, not even pausing to see the Mazda back out into the street. Maybe I'd get lucky, and he'd plough into the back of a lorry or a truck would push him off the road. But Papa always came back.