Shotgun

In Peter's garage was a tall steel cabinet. It weighed over 100 kilograms and was bolted to the concrete floor. He had built it himself in line with Victoria's firearms regulations. He unlocked the heavy padlock and the door creaked as he swung it open. Inside the cabinet was a shotgun, hunting rifle, and a selection of ammunition. He took the shotgun and a few shells, and returned to the house.

His wife was in a large armchair in the living room. She did not notice that Peter was carrying the gun. She lay motionless, reclined in the chair. Streaks of blonde hair covered much of her face. Their son Tom had died three months earlier and his ashes were in an urn on the mantle beside her.

Before going outside, Peter looked through the window by the front door. A neighbour jogged past on the footpath. Another was out in the sun planting flowers in their garden. Peter took a coat from where it hung by the door and covered his weapon with it. He pocketed the shells.

Peter's car was a large Toyota Hilux. Ordinarily he used it to haul tools and materials for his construction business. He tossed the gun and coat on the back seat and climbed in. Nobody paid him any mind.

To stop his hands from trembling, he grasped the steering wheel tight as he drove. His grip was slick with sweat. He tried to calm himself with deep breathing, but the closer he came to Gavin's house, the faster his heart beat, and the more unsteady his breathing became.

The coroner's report had stated that Tom's death was due to him taking large doses of oxycodone, hydrocodone, valium, and xanax. Together these opioids and benzodiazepines had conspired to suppress his respiratory system, and he had ultimately died of hypoxia. The police assured Peter that his son's death had been a painless one.

Mansfield was not a very large town, and it only took Peter a few minutes to drive to Gavin's place. It was a route he had driven many times before. Often he would park somewhere close to the house and walk by. He would look in through the windows and watch the yard as he went. This time he pulled up directly outside.

Gavin's home was a small bungalow. Paint had long since begun to peel and flake from its wood panels, and there was even some visible rot around its foundation. A broken window had been patched up with cardboard and duct tape. Several bricks were missing from the steps.

Tom had been only 18 when he died. He had just finished secondary school and his plan was to complete a carpentry apprenticeship before joining his father in the family business. Peter had wanted him to go to university, but he wasn't interested. He wanted to work with his hands, and his father had proven there was real money to be made in construction.

At first, Peter thought that his son must have had a legitimate prescription for the drugs that had killed him. He imagined Tom had fought a struggle with mental illness that he had not told his mother and father about. However, the police report made clear that Tom was not in lawful possession of the pills. It had been recreational use. The overdose was accidental.

Peter asked his friends, his brother, his wife, his lawyer, if any of them knew who the dealer was. Nobody had any idea. He asked the younger men who worked for him, but they would not give a straight answer. At last, he asked one of Tom's close friends. After insisting that he let up who it had been, the friend tearfully told Peter that it had been Gavin McNeil, of 17 Brisbane Street.

Between sobs, the young friend had said, "Please Peter, just don't… do anything about it."

Peter had observed Gavin greet all manner of unsavoury people at his door. They were almost certainly customers. He had seen Gavin drive off late at night and return soon thereafter, most likely having delivered some of his product. When Tom told the police what he had seen and provided video evidence, they searched Gavin's house but found nothing. No drugs. No cash.

The policeman had held his hands to his hips and said, "Look mate, I believe you, I do. It's just that without direct evidence we can't prosecute. He's not as stupid as he looks."

A shadow moved in the house, but through the glare on the windows Peter could not see who it was. He had turned the engine off and without air conditioning the temperature in the car was climbing rapidly. He looked to make sure nobody was nearby on the street, and pulled back the coat. He examined the shotgun and considered both the grain of its wood and the finish on its steel barrel. An engraving noted that it was made in England. He wiped the sweat from his brow and tossed the coat back over the weapon. With empty hands he stepped out of the car and went up the broken steps to Gavin's front door. Ugly music came through from the other side. He knocked, the music paused, and footsteps approached.

Gavin opened the door at first just an inch, and then slowly all the way. Up close he seemed younger than Peter had thought. His skin was clear and his beard was short and patchy, as if not fully developed. He wore a ragged t-shirt with a faded design that was no longer recognisable.

"Who the bloody hell are you then?" Gavin said.

"I'm Peter Fisher, Tom's father."

Gavin's expression did not change. "OK. I don't know who that is, or who you are."

Peter looked over Gavin's shoulder and into the house. It was not as messy as he had expected. In fact, it was quite empty. It smelled of tobacco.

"My son knew you. He passed away recently. Tom."

Gavin shrugged. "Don't know a Tom."

"He was just a young kid," said Peter. "Blond hair. Looked like me."

"Plenty of people look that way."

Peter crossed his arms. "Listen, I know that you sold Tom the pills that killed him."

"Pills? The only pills I have are my vitamins. No idea what you're on about."

"The police are onto you, you know that. This path you're going down goes only one direction. You need to bloody well cut it out, and cut it out now."

Gavin raised an eyebrow. "Or else what? You'll be a tough guy and handle it yourself? Is that why you're here, to teach me a lesson? Go get back in your ute, and piss off."

"Listen mate," said Peter. "If you don't cut it out, I can promise you that things really just won't go well for you, one way or another."

Gavin smiled and pointed a finger directly at Peter's face. "No, you listen, mate. I'm not putting up with any threats. Not from you. Not from anyone. Don't come by making any more accusations." He looked up and down the street, and closed the door in Peter's face with enough force to make him flinch. The ugly music resumed.

Peter walked back to his car. The coat was still there on his backseat, and the shotgun beneath it. He looked at it through the window and fingered the shells in his pocket. They were 28 gram slugs. It would only take one shot. The street was quiet and if he was fast he could be home before the police arrived. He would have a few last hours with his wife before they arrested him. She would thank him.

There came the sound of a door opening behind him. He turned to see Gavin standing in the doorway. The man gestured violently and called out, "What are you standing there for? Get the fuck out of here."

Peter clenched his fist around one of the shells in his pocket. He felt the weight and density of the lead within it. He let it go, and took a few steps towards Gavin.

"Look, maybe I can help you out," said Peter. "Is the problem just that you need a job? If you're good with your hands you could come work with me. We do construction. We'd find a place for you easily enough. We pay well. If it helps you turn things around, you'd be welcome to join us."

"A job? What are you on about?"

Peter took another step closer. "If an income means you'll quit selling your… product, then I'd be happy to take you on. We'll teach you what you need to know. A bunch of the guys are your age. They're decent blokes. You'd like them."

Gavin blinked. He looked up and down the street again. A magpie flew past and he watched it go. At last he shook his head and said, "Go on, piss off." He closed the door without slamming it shut.

Peter left the shotgun unloaded where it was and got back in the driver's seat. As he drove home his hands were steady on the wheel.