Ryan sat quietly in the rain, clenching his hands tightly in his lap, listening but not really paying attention to the spoken words. Could there be a more sombre occasion? Many would say yes. Only a few would remember the funeral of Fran Wilcox. A total of four enhanced the occasion with their presence.
Two aging, scruffy looking women stood back under the shelter of a weeping willow, gently sobbing. They played bingo with Fran on a Thursday night and were the sum of her recent social partnerships. Their tears were genuinely sympathetic to her passing, but they were unaware of the real hardships and sorrow Fran endured during her troubled life.
One of the other two attending was Fran’s only son, Ryan. He sat politely listening to the two-dollar priest give his two-dollar service. With a glaze over his eyes, he stared deeply into the final resting place of his dearly beloved mother. His mind sifted through the bad memories, shattered hopes and long-forgotten dreams.
Behind Ryan stood his only friend, Shooter Wallace. More than just a friend, Shooter was Ryan’s ally, faithful companion and trusted assistant through life. He leaned over and looked at Ryan sympathetically.
“Are ya right, mate?”
“Yeah, I’m right. Just take me home, Shooter.”
*****
For seventeen years, Ryan lived with his mother on the ground floor of a tired old six-story building by the ocean. The soothing sound of waves hitting the nearby cliffs and the warmth of the brilliant sunrises quickly lost their lustre after Fran’s passing. Ryan felt a loneliness he’d never experienced before. Nothing ever seemed to change over all those years. But now it had. Now things felt very different.
Shooter Wallace lived on the sixth floor of the same building. He had a very well kept, very stylish apartment, or so he claimed. Ryan didn’t really believe him, but he’d never been up there. They always hung out at Ryan’s place. It was just a matter of convenience. Ryan’s building had no elevator. Stairs and wheelchairs don’t mix well.
Ryan’s father shot through seventeen years earlier, yet his memory and legacy lingered on with a ferocity that never died. Ryan rarely showed his anger openly. He had a quiet, introverted personality, but if you looked him in the eye and spoke the name of his father, you’d see the devil’s rage ignite.
When Ryan was fourteen, and his parents were still together, a terrible fire tore through their house. It was Saturday afternoon. Ryan’s father, Nigel Wilcox, didn’t have a job, so Fran worked at the local diner. Nigel fell asleep in a drunken state on the lounge with a burning cigarette in his hand. It fell to the floor setting the TV guide alight. He woke up to the pain of melting flesh. The whole room was well and truly ablaze. Nigel staggered outside and began to hose himself off, trying to relieve the searing pain.
Like any good fourteen-year-old, Ryan was upstairs in his room, working hard on his latest Nintendo game. By the time he smelt smoke and went to investigate, the stairs were an inferno. The downstairs area was full of smoke with flames leaping around in all directions.
Ryan ran to his window, spotting his father at the hose. “Dad, help me,” he screamed. “I’m stuck upstairs.”
Nigel Wilcox, in a drunken state of panic over what he’d done, headed for the front gate.
“Wait, Dad. Don’t go. I can’t get down.”
His father offered some final advice as he went through the gate and fled down the street like a scared rabbit. “Jump or burn, son,” he yelled. “Jump or burn.”
The heat of the fire intensified. Ryan scurried up into the attic and began praying. That was not going to help. The flames quickly made it to the attic, licking at Ryan. Fear stung him as much as the heat. His father’s last words of wisdom echoed through his mind. “Jump or burn, son. Jump or burn.”
Ryan had no choice. He suffered severe burns to his face and left arm. With the last of his strength, he threw himself at the attic window. Broken glass, a shattered window frame and Ryan all plummeted three stories to the ground below. His injuries were horrific. Nigel Wilcox never came home. He vanished without a trace.
*****
Seventeen years had passed, but the injuries to Ryan’s body and mind were long lasting. The ugly scars from the fire left his face distorted, almost melted, making social occasions awkward to say the least. The injuries to his legs from the three story fall left him in a wheelchair with no hope of ever walking again.
With his mother gone, his determination became stronger than ever. He had little choice. He needed to find his independence. As close as he and Shooter were, he couldn’t rely on him to do everything for him, as his mother once did.
Shooter was a crazy kind of guy. He was ex-military. He received a dishonourble discharge after a three year stint in the bomb disposal unit following an attempt to blow up the officer’s toilet block. Unfortunately, the cleverly constructed device detonated before he got clear. It took two fingers from his right hand. Pins and rods now hold his right leg together, and he has a permanent limp to remind him of his stupidity. It seemed quite funny at the time, so Shooter claimed. The attitude at the hearing was remarkably different.
Shooter now worked for a respectable alarm installation company. He was quite inventive with wiring and electrical devices. He was even more creative with drinking games. Most nights he came down from his sixth floor luxury apartment to hang out with Ryan. They’d drink beer, talk about politics, war and sex. They’d drink more beer and more beer and more beer and get angry, one with more reason to be angry than the other, and the latter just a little more crazy than the former.
*****
Fran’s wealth consisted of two thousand dollars in a bank account and a bag full of jewelry – the family jewels, as Fran liked to call them. The stones and bracelets had a value of around twenty thousand dollars. They were accompanied by a letter from Fran telling Ryan to keep the jewelry, insisting they’d be worth more as antiques. “Make sure you keep them in a safe place,” the letter said. “Don’t let them fall into uncaring hands.”
Early one morning, following a standard night of heavy drinking with Shooter, and a hangover from hell, Ryan woke from a deep sleep to the sound of a loud knock on his front door. He assumed it was Shooter in a drunken state, looking for an easy breakfast.
“Go back to sleep ya drunken fool. It’s too early,” yelled Ryan.
There was no answer, just another series of loud knocks. After a short pause, more loud knocking followed. Ryan reluctantly dragged himself out of bed and into his wheelchair. He headed for the front door, deftly dodging the empty beer bottles scattered around the living room floor. He persuaded the three varying locks into the unlocked position and rolled backward.
“Come in, Shooter, and for Christ’s sake, keep the noise down. I’ve got a cracker headache.”
The door slowly swung open. It wasn’t Shooter. In the doorway stood the last person in the world Ryan expected to see – his father.
Nigel Wilcox was a tall, heavily built man. He wore the cheapest of clothes and the most tasteless of grins. A thick beard covered his cheeks. His long hair draped down over his face. His expression was void of sympathy, void of compassion and showed no sign of remorse. Only the most experienced psychologist could see through his pathetic smirk to the true evil hidden behind it. Ryan didn’t need a university degree to know what kind of an arsehole his father was.
“Nice chair, son.”
Ryan stared at his father for a few tortuous seconds, then spat on him with all the saliva he could muster.
“Well, that’s not a very nice welcome for your long-lost daddy,” said Nigel Wilcox, wiping the spit from his pants.
“If I wasn’t in this wheelchair, I’d knock your block off, then put a match to your sorry arse, you son-of-a-bitch!”
“Yes, but you are in the wheelchair, boy. You should be thankful you’re alive.”
“Yeah, no thanks to you. It’s because of you I’m in this thing. Jump or burn? Wasn’t that your cowardly advice?”
“Hey, look, it was every man for himself in there. You can understand that, can’t you?”
“I was fourteen!” screamed Ryan.
“Should we let bygones be bygones?” Nigel Wilcox placed his right shoe on the front wheel of Ryan’s chair. He pushed it backward and invited himself inside. He casually strolled around the living room, looking at all the knick-knacks. Most of them belonged to Fran. He picked up a photo of Fran and Ryan. After a quick look, he placed it face down on the table he found it on. He looked at all the empty beer bottles on the floor. “How ’bout a beer, son.”
“Leave now, you bastard.”
“Oh, no, I won’t be doing that,” said Nigel Wilcox confidently. “I heard your mother died.”
“What do you care? You haven’t contacted us in seventeen years.”
Nigel Wilcox casually walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge, pulled out a beer, cracked it open and took a swig. “I’ve seen the will.”
“You had no right to.”
“Nevertheless, I’ve seen it, and I want half. It should all be mine. I’m sure we can come to some kind of arrangement, with a little common sense. What do you say, boy?”
“No deal”. Ryan turned his wheelchair 180 degrees. His anger intensified. “Just get out.”
“If you give me half, then you’ll never see me again. If not, I’ll hang around and make your life hell.”
Ryan turned to face his father again. “It already is hell. Just look at me.”
Nigel Wilcox calmly strolled toward the door with a smile of supreme confidence, not at all affected by the confrontation. “I’ll make it worse,” he said.
“If you come back, I’ll call the police.”
“Yeah, sure. Anyway, I’ll be back, and you better have made the right choice. See ya, boy.” Nigel Wilcox took a final swig, threw the half-empty beer bottle to the floor and slammed the door behind him.
*****
That afternoon, Shooter knocked on Ryan’s door at the usual time. He entered heavily armed with a case of beer, two packets of cigarettes and a couple of joints. A burning cigarette hung from the left side of his mouth. He put the beers in the fridge, grabbed four, then sunk into a chair next to Ryan.
Shooter never met the infamous Nigel Wilcox, but knew enough about Ryan’s hapless past to despise the man. To Shooter, you could hate a man without meeting him. It was like reading about a nasty villain in a history book. You knew the man existed, you believed the evidence, but you didn’t have to meet him to know you disliked him. That was Shooter’s theory, anyway.
After six or seven beers, they opened the second packet of cigarettes. Ryan began to speak in a more serious tone. “Shooter, mate. We need to talk about a couple of very important favours I need ya to do for me.”
Shooter rose and bowed unsteadily. “Ya wish is my command, matey. What do ya need? Ya know I’ll do anything for ya, brother.”
“I need you to stash this jewelry in your apartment.” Ryan feared his father’s return. He must have been broke and desperate to come looking for money. Ryan needed to remove the jewelry from his house before finding a more permanent solution. If Ryan died, his father would get everything. With little persuasion, Shooter agreed to Ryan’s first request.
The second request was a little more complex. After a couple of hours nutting out the details, drinking the rest of the beer and smoking most of the cigarettes, they eventually came to an agreement. Shooter fearlessly agreed to Ryan’s wishes. They both spat in the palm of their hands and shook on it. They clashed glasses with a shot of whiskey, and called it a night.
*****
Exactly one week later, Nigel Wilcox returned. Ryan’s heart pounded as he unlocked the door. He moved his wheelchair back. “Come in, maggot.”
His father burst in, looking cranky as hell. “That’s not very nice.” He moved straight for the lounge, pushed the rubbish to one side and made himself at home. He scanned the usual mess of empty beer bottles. He jumped back to his feet and headed for the kitchen, opening the fridge. “What, no beer for your old man?” He returned to the lounge. His grin was treacherous. “So, what’s it gonna be, boy? I hope you’ve made the right choice. Let me see the jewelry.”
“The jewelry’s not here. You’re not getting half. Let’s talk about it.”
His father jumped back to his feet. “Good, that’s a start. We’ll go for a little walk – ah, you know what I mean. We’ll go up to the Lookout Cafe. You can buy me lunch. We’ll discuss the details.”
“No! No way. We’re stayin’ here. I’ll order pizza. Shooter can bring us some beer.”
He ignored Ryan’s request. His father grabbed the handles of the wheelchair and pushed him out the door, closing it firmly behind him. He began the long, strenuous push up the hill to the Lookout Cafe. He gave the same answer to each of Ryan’s questions. “Everything will be alright. Just do as I say. Simple as that.”
Approaching the cafe, Nigel Wilcox turned the chair onto a path leading to the lookout. “This isn’t the way to the cafe,” said Ryan. His father pushed on without responding. After another deviation to a smaller track leading away from the main viewing area, toward a more secluded part of the cliff edge, it became overwhelmingly obvious they were not going to the cafe. “What the hell are you doing, you arsehole?”
As Nigel Wilcox moved Ryan’s wheelchair up to the edge of the cliff, he made his intentions clear. “There’s been a change of plans, boy. You can keep the cash, but I’ve decided to to take all the jewelry. It’s quite simple really. You tell me where they are, or I’ll push you off the cliff. Do we have an understanding, boy?”
Adrenalin pulsed through Ryan’s veins. This was the worst-case scenario. He hesitated with his response.
“Well, what’s it gonna be, boy?”
“Okay, the Jewelry’s stashed at Shooter’s place, but I don’t want you to hurt him, alright?”
“Ah, Shooter Wallace. Apartment 6B, I believe. I’ll tell you what. To save him suffering, you can call him and tell him to come get ya. Tell him I’ve left you up here, but don’t mention the jewels, or I’ll push you off, right?”
“I don’t have my phone. You didn’t give me time to grab it before we left.”
“No problem. You can use mine.”
Ryan phoned Shooter, told him his father had abandoned him and gave him the location. He didn’t mention the jewelry. As he completed the call, Nigel Wilcox laughed. He grabbed the handles of the wheelchair and firmly pushed it over the cliff. Ryan’s scream faded like the end of a sad song, only interrupted by the sharp sound of the wheelchair hitting the jagged rocks below.
“Damn. I should’ve got my phone back first.”
Nigel Wilcox pushed through the bushland parallel to the road for a while before emerging near his car, strategically positioned in a quiet street near the lookout. He avoided possible detection by turning left and right, right and left. By the time he arrived, he figured Shooter would be well into the long walk up to the lookout.
He climbed the six flights of stairs. He stopped to get his breath back. Apartment 6A was empty. The front door was open with no furniture in sight. The possibility of a confrontation with Shooter Wallace was remote, but Nigel Wilcox had to be certain. He thumped on the door of 6B twice with the butt of his clenched fist. The door swung open.
He waited. He listened. All was quiet inside. “Don’t make me hurt you, Shooter,” he yelled. “I just want the jewelry.”
No response. He assumed that in a panic, Shooter took off to retrieve his friend in such a hurry he didn’t secure the door properly. Slowly and cautiously, he stepped inside.
The place was a mess, hardly the luxury apartment Shooter assured Ryan it was. It smelt like a mechanic’s workshop. Beer bottles and empty cigarette packets covered the floor. Paraphernalia, seemingly undisturbed for months, littered the side tables. It would be hard enough finding the bathroom, let alone the treasure he sought.
After just a few small steps, Nigel Wilcox stepped on a well-concealed trip-wire. Behind him, the door slammed shut and four bolt mechanisms activated, rendering the door inoperable. The sound of a small electric motor on the left side of the room grabbed his attention. A large barrel tilted up before crashing down, spilling liquid across the floor. Another motor came to life. This one turned a disc at speed against a flint, sending sparks flying to the floor, igniting the liquid.
Within seconds the left side of the apartment became engulfed in flames. There was a hallway on the right. Nigel made a run for it. There were three doorways off the hallway. The first led to the bathroom. Heavy bolts prevented access. No escape there. The other two open doors led to the bedrooms. The first bedroom had a fire escape through the window. It was inaccessible, blocked by a crude, recently installed set of bars.
As the fire grew more ferocious and made its way into the hallway, Nigel Wilcox entered the final bedroom. The door refused to close behind him, due to a wooden block bolted to the floor. Smoke began to fill the room as the fire approached. He rushed to the window, drew the curtains open and froze in horror. The unlocked window offered no fire escape. Written across the window were three words in big, black, bold letters. Jump or burn.
*****
Shooter Wallace sat quietly on the back seat of a bus heading north, eating a sandwich, going over the details of how he was about to disappear off the face of the earth. He checked his bag for the ninth time, as if not really sure he had the jewelry. But he did. He stared out the window and spoke softly to himself. “Rest in peace, my friend. I have fulfilled your request. The jewelry is in better hands than those of Nigel Wilcox.”