The Piper's Son by Melina Marchetta Read Free Book Online Page B

money?”
    Tom can’t hide his reaction. Tries to, but can tell from Stani’s expression that he fails. The money in his pocket seems pathetic, and he wants to punch something or someone. The guitarist in the back room who doesn’t know the chords makes him want to barge in there and smash the instrument into pieces.
    “Why didn’t you sack them?” he blurts out. “You would have known what they were doing.”
    Stani leans forward over the counter. He’s led a hard life, and it’s stamped all over his face.
    “Because I promised Dominic Mackee that I wouldn’t let any of my employees sign a workplace agreement. It would have been easier if I did.”
    “My father didn’t represent your union.”
    Stani shrugs. “A union man’s a union man.”
    Tom gives up. He doesn’t have two thousand dollars.
    The guitar playing continues, and he notices Stani taking a deep breath of total sufferance.
    “Wrong chord,” Tom mutters to him, and then walks away but stops before he makes it outside.
    “I’ll work for you,” he says from the door. “Until I pay it off.”
    Stani shakes his head. “Like I said, don’t return here with your friends, and you and me, we’re square.”
    Tom shakes his head. “
No.
I work here until the debt is paid off.”
    “No.”
    “You think I’m going to steal from you, don’t you?”
    His voice is aggressive, but he can’t help it. He’s back at the counter, fists clenched at his side. He tries to remember what his counselor in high school would tell him during their “how to combat the bully in you” sessions that Tom was forced to attend in Year Eight.
    “I do,” Stani says flatly.
    Wrong chord again.
    “Bloody bastard,” Stani mutters.
“Wrong chord, Frankie!”
    Great. Francesca. That’s all Tom needs. Both girls.
    “Change the chord!”
Stani calls out again.
    “To a G,” Tom tells him.
    “To a G!”
    The guitar playing stops.
    “What if I promise?” Tom persists.
    Stani’s just staring at him. All pale-blue bloodshot eyes squinting with distrust. But then Tom gets sick of the groveling and walks toward the door.
    “On your father’s honor?” Stani asks as Tom reaches the door.
    “No.” Tom’s not wanting to bring his father into this . . . into anything in his life. “On my uncle’s. On Joe’s. You knew him?”
    Stani nods with a sigh. “Yeah, I knew Joe.”
    The guitar playing begins again. It’s slow and she’s thinking too hard. He can imagine the look on Francesca’s face while she concentrates on the chords. She picks a Waifs song — a good one for learning because it’s just one or two chords and it’s slow.
    “I can hazard a guess, but I’ll never know
    Why you put these walls up, I can’t get through
    It’s as though you want to be lonely and blue.”
    Francesca Spinelli’s voice can do anything, and singing alongside her always made Tom sound better than he was. Justine was the same. One of those musical geniuses. Except she chose the accordion, or as she’d say, it chose her, and it’s not exactly the conservatorium’s choice musical instrument. When they were in Year Twelve, the three of them formed a band and called themselves The Fey. Tom was purely into writing their own material. Originals or nothing. Francesca didn’t mind dabbling with a cover once or twice. Justine was neutral. They ended up with a mixed bag that they always believed made them unique, and for the first year of uni, they played gigs around each other’s campuses, constantly hiring and firing drummers until they decided they’d stick to just the three of them. They were different from the others in their group. Tom and Francesca, especially, had a bit of a lazy streak, courtesy of natural ability. They just liked playing music with absolutely no ambition of going anywhere with it and it was Justine who took care of business and was in charge. By the end of their first year of uni, Siobhan Sullivan was working three jobs, saving to go to London, and