Game Theory
Authors: Barry Jonsberg
ALSO BY BARRY JONSBERG
Pandora Jones (Book 1) Admission
Pandora Jones (Book 2) Deception
Pandora Jones (Book 3) Reckoning
My Life as an Alphabet
Being Here
Cassie
Ironbark
Dreamrider
It's Not All About YOU, Calma!
The Whole Business With Kiffo and the Pitbull
For younger readers
Blacky Blasts Back: On the Tail of the Tassie Tiger
A Croc Called Capone
The Dog That Dumped On My Doona
First published by Allen & Unwin in 2016
Copyright © Barry Jonsberg 2016
The moral right of Barry Jonsberg to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the United Kingdom's
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian
Copyright Act 1968
(the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.
Allen & Unwin â Australia
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Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100
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Allen & Unwin â UK
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A Cataloguing-in-Publication entry is available from the National Library of Australia
www.trove.nla.gov.au
.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (AUS) 9781760290153
ISBN (UK) 9781743368763
eISBN 9781952533839
Teachers' notes available from
www.allenandunwin.com
Cover & text design by Ruth Grüner
Cover images by R-J-Seymour (iStockphoto), jaroon (iStockphoto), duncan1890 (iStockphoto), Meplezii_Ck (iStockphoto)
Typeset by Ruth Grüner
CONTENTS
Clouds part and moonlight steals through my curtains, a silver intruder.
I sit upright in bed and the gun is clasped in my right hand. I have been in the same position all night; the pillow is rucked against my back and there is a pain in my neck. My hand aches from gripping the gun's handle too hard. I have not slept, though I tried at first.
Killing someone with a gun is not easy. I know this from the research I've done. There are two elements to consider â the physical and the psychological. The psychological poses the most obvious problem. It's one thing to fire at targets on shooting ranges, quite another to point a gun at something built of flesh, blood and mind. This is well known. Even those who hunt animals â people who
enjoy
snuffing the life from a pig or a kangaroo â find it's very different shooting a human being. Look someone in the eyes, point the gun, apply even pressure to the trigger, knowing there is a point when the hammer punches a cap
that explodes a charge that propels a bullet that tears and bores through air. Less than a second. Much less than a second, from the finger's tipping-point to the violation of body, metal tunnelling through flesh, destroying all it touches. Everything is cause and effect. But this effect is monumental, far out of proportion to the physical cause. The tiniest of pressures, gentler than a caress. Life ended.
I have never fired a loaded gun. Until today.
Then there is the practicality of death by gunfire, the physics involved. Most people don't consider this because television makes it seem so easy. Television makes everything seem easy. I will admit that a rifle with a scope would be different. So too would an automatic weapon. Press the trigger and bullets stream out. Provided you are holding the weapon somewhere near the target you are bound to do damage. This is why it is the weapon of choice for psychopaths whose demons lead them to school buildings and shopping malls.
I have a hand gun. They are notoriously inaccurate, even if they are of good quality. I suspect mine isn't.
A hand gun kicks, which moves the barrel, which alters the bullet's trajectory. It is very easy to miss. In fact, without practice, it is much easier to miss than hit. I have had no practice. I will have to be close. Close enough to see the widening eyes, to smell the fear. Up close and personal. Many of my hours throughout the night have been occupied with these thoughts. They circle in my head, buzzing like insects.
I swing my legs out of bed and place the gun next to me. My hand is stiff. I hold it up before my eyes and work the fingers, loosening the muscles. It feels like a claw, looks like a claw. Then I stand and walk carefully to the window, draw the curtains. I know my bedroom, know where the boards creak, so I do not make a noise. I look out. Dawn is an hour away. There is the thinnest smear of orange on the horizon. Above, one cloud squats, its white edges dissolving into the blackness of night. It is time to go. It's not the time for my appointment. That is over three hours away. But it's time for me to go.
Before I went to bed I set my clothes out. Dark jeans and a black T-shirt. Black runners. I feel like a cliché but I get dressed anyway. Pulling on the T-shirt, I smell myself and it is sharp, unpleasant. I am tempted to tuck the gun into the waistband of my jeans, in the small of my back, but I settle for pushing the barrel as far down into my right pocket as I can. I check that the safety is on. For the hundredth time. That was another image. The gun going off and shooting me in the leg. It's absurd enough to happen.
It used to be that Summerlee â my older sister â would come home at three or four in the morning and stumble up the stairs, crashing into things, and Mum and Dad would never wake. She would laugh about that.
I was so shitfaced I could barely crawl, and they slept through the whole thing
. Now Dad cannot sleep. If I were to open my door at night, he would be there, eyes wide with fear and looking like death. His hair is grey and thinning by
the hour. I imagine him in bed, propped up like I have been all night, staring into nothing and weaving nightmares from it, one hand twitching at the bedcovers. I cannot leave by the door. Not just because of Dad but also because there are two police officers camped in our front room. This is why I left the window open all night; one reason â not the
main
reason â why I didn't sleep.
The backpack is under my bed, the rope attached to its handle. It is heavy and my muscles cramp as I lower it to the ground. Once I feel the weight ease, I drop the rope after it. Then I throw one leg over the sill and reach for the drainpipe with my left hand. I put the other leg out, so I am sitting on my window ledge. The gun is bunched up in my pocket and its heavy bulk is uncomfortable. My bedroom is on the first floor, hence the drainpipe. I am not athletic. It is not in my nature to shin down pipes but I manage without falling. I am relieved I have made it so far without waking anyone.
I stand on the lawn and look around. Bushes and trees crowd me with thick shadows and everything is unfamiliar. I detach the rope from the backpack, which I ease onto my shoulders. I take the gun out of my pocket and tuck it now in the back of my jeans. It is time to go but I am reluctant. It is like the tipping-point of a finger on a trigger. Once I move away from my house, take that first step on the journey, then I will set in motion a train of events leading to one conclusion or another. Cause and effect. I shiver but I am not cold. Somewhere an owl hoots. The sound is mournful and thin. I take the first step and the second is easier,
the third easier still. My body moves and my mind is subservient, still and cowardly, happy to let the rhythm of muscles take charge and move me, second by second, to whatever destination awaits.
I walk into the road and turn right. I keep to the track of broken lines in the middle of the street. Everywhere is dark. Everywhere is quiet, except for the soft kiss of rubber soles on tarmac.
Game theory has brought me to this point and I must follow where it leads.
Even though this is not a game.
