by J. M. Peace
75.
Roy had nothing against dogs. He had a couple himself. Loyal and trusting, most of the time. This one here was a runty little shit. One of those white things that look like a mop head and could almost be a cat. It had been cautious, wary, at first but two bacon-flavoured dog treats later and he was scratching it behind the ears. It licked his hand, looking for further treats and gazed up at him, the toilet-brush tail wagging. He almost changed his mind. But it was just an animal. And this was a matter of principle.
The dog followed him without hesitation as he gently unlatched the gate to the backyard. He had a red collar on and the registration tag tinkled against the name tag shaped like a bone as he jogged out of the yard. Roy left the gate open, just wide enough for the dog to squeeze through. A handful of treats ensured the dog followed him down the driveway and onto the road.
Roy piled the treats in the middle of the road. It was late at night. There was no traffic around – except Roy's car parked down a parallel street. He cut through a vacant block and got into his 4WD. He pulled out into the street, indicated correctly as he came around the block and saw the dog, still eating the treats in the middle of the road. The dog only looked up at the last moment, made a tiny jump to the left before the car hit him. Roy slammed on the brakes, leaving a short skid mark before pulling up on the side of the road. It was a clean kill. The animal wasn't even twitching. Roy quickly picked up the remains of the dog's last meal, jamming the treats into his pocket. He removed a morsel from the corner of the dog's black lips and kicked away a couple of crumbs on the bitumen. Then he returned to his car. He sounded the horn. Once, then a longer blast the second time.
Sharpe came out of his house, along with two other men from neighbouring houses.
"Whose dog?" Roy called, pointing at the white and red stain on the road.
"Oh god!" the copper hissed and ran down to the road. One of the neighbours went back inside, the other came down to the road.
Sharpe knelt down next to the dog, laid a hand on its fur. It was quite clearly dead. No emergency trip to the vets was going to change the outcome.
He stood up, turned on Roy, fists clenched by his sides. "What did you do, you cockhead?"
Roy held both hands up in front of him. "Hey," he said. "The dog ran out on the road in front of me. I tried to brake..." At this point, he theatrically pointed out the skid marks. "But it was too late."
Sharpe looked at him in disbelief. "How'd he get out?" He twisted around to look at the gate, open a fraction. "You fucking let him out, didn't you?" And then the flow-on from this. "You ran him down," he said breathlessly.
This was what Roy had been waiting for. With a slight smirk, he looked the copper in the eye. "Prove it."
"Prove it? I know it."
"Knowing means nothing. You've got to prove it. Beyond all reasonable doubt and all that shit."
Sharpe stared in fury at Roy. There was a voice from the house. Roy looked up to where the copper's wife was standing at the front door, dressing gown pulled tight around her.
"Harry? Is everything okay?"
"Go back inside, I'll be up in a minute."
Sharpe turned back to Roy. "You arsehole. You absolute arsehole."
Roy could smell fear beneath the anger. This flea wouldn't lift a finger against him.
"Prove it. You know the way it works. Doesn't matter what you think might have happened. Doesn't matter what it looks like. You've got to be able to prove it." Roy kept his voice low.
Sharpe, fists still clenched, had no reply. He knew. He understood.
As Roy walked back to his car, he threw one last remark over his shoulder.
"It was only a dog. It's not like it was something important. Like a person."
76.
Sharpey sidled up to Coops.
"Do you finish at 2?"
Coops nodded. "Can't come quick enough today," he replied. "Is it full moon or something? All the spoons are out."
"Come for a drink out the back when you're done," Sharpey said.
"Yeah, sounds good," he replied.
Mort and Sharpey were already there when Coops finally got out of the station. "Cal's coming too," Coops said.
"Beer's in the fridge," Mort said, gesturing into the barracks.
Sharpey paused in the doorway. "Krista's still at work, isn't she?"
Mort nodded. "She just started."
"Good," he said as he went inside.
He brought a beer out for Callum, who turned up in boardshorts and a t-shirt.
"Always got time for a beer," Callum said smiling and sitting down. "Thanks for the invite."
"I wanted to talk to you guys," Sharpey said. "Just you lot, the good guys, the ones I can trust." He didn't sit down. He stood at the head of the table like he was convening a meeting. All eyes were on him.
"What's going on," Coops asked.
"This thing with our dog's got me really riled up. The wife is just devastated. Chester was like her baby. I'm worried she'd going to do something like Karen. Pack up and leave till this is all over. I know that cockhead Hegarty did it. I had a good look on the road the next day in the sunlight at the spot where Chester got run over. I found crumbs of dog treats. He's opened the gate, lured poor Chester onto the road with some dog treats, then run him over. We all know it would be a hell of a thing to try to prove in court. But I know he did it."
"I'm sure it was one of them who wrecked my car too," Coops said. "Still fighting the insurance company on that one. The front seats are getting replaced now. We're down to one car again and my wife takes that. I'm on a friggin bicycle."
"They're attacking us. In our own town, our own homes. The Colonel's doing fuck-all. He's useless as armpits in a snake. So where's it going to end?"
"If Hegarty's prepared to run over a harmless little dog, what else is he going to do next?" Coops said. "What about our kids? They could have stabbed Piper just as easy as hacking off her hair. This isn't something our families should have to deal with. But they're getting dragged into it too. They’re at risk, because of what we do for a living. Because there was some accident at the back of the station. It's not right."
"Exactly," Sharpey said. "They've taken matters into their own hands and they're getting away with it. So I propose we come up with a plan of our own. Cause we're much smarter than them and know how the system works."
Mort had been listening quietly up until this point. "No! No!" he snapped. He rose to his feet facing Sharpey, hands out in front of him like two stop signs. "Are you seriously suggesting going out and... what? Attacking the Hegartys?"
"Attacking's not the word I'd use. But we need to do something to shut them down and take our town back."
"Are you fucken serious?" Mort said, his voice raising. "You want to go all vigilante? You're police officers!"
"Keep your voice down," hissed Sharpey. "You're part of the reason we're doing this."
"What? A man dies in my custody and you're doing me a favour by attacking his family? Take a good hard look at yourself, Sharpey! You do not, I repeat, DO NOT, want to go through an investigation like that. Trust me.."
He looked around at the faces turned towards him.
"Fuck," he said. "You guys agree with him. I'm out of here."
He stormed off towards the carpark.
"Well," Sharpey said as he watched Mort walk away. "That was unexpected. I asked you guys because I thought we were all on the same page. So no one say anything further to Mort about this."
"I think the stress of it all might be getting to him," Coops said. "He's got enough shit to cope with. Probably for the best if we leave him out of this. But you can count me in."
The other men all nodded their heads in agreement.
77.
Mort lay in his bed staring at the ceiling. There was an old water stain in the corner directly above him and he focused on this. He knew it well now, the way it blossomed out from the corner, darker at the top. How many hours had he spent staring straight
ahead in the middle of the night?
He glanced across at the clock. It was nearly 3 am. He'd drunk enough after his shift finished to buy him a few hours sleep. But now he felt dry and hollow.
He stared at the stain again. He knew when he stared at it long enough, it morphed into a face. Dark eyes, dark hair. It wasn't just anyone's face. It was Angus Hegarty. He saw Angus everywhere. Peering from behind the curtains. Waiting by the door to the barracks. Hiding in the shadows in his locker at work. Angus, who spat in his face and called him 'pig'. Angus, who drank because he was sad and lonely. Angus, whose family loved him.
Mort thought about his own family. He called to mind his parents and everything they'd done for him. His father had told him how proud he was at his swearing-in ceremony as a police officer. It was the only time he remembered hearing his father say that word to him. His mother was waiting for grandchildren, cranky when Mort's marriage had broken up.
One minute. It had all unravelled in one minute. One impulsive unwatched minute between Angus and himself. And it had changed both their lives.
He pulled a bourbon bottle out from between the bedside table and the bed. He raised himself on one elbow so he could neck the bottle without spilling it. The liquor ran down his throat, cold and hot at once. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and returned the bottle to the floor before falling heavily backwards again.
He couldn't keep doing this. It was torture. He could handle the physical side of it. The constant headache and gut ache. The nausea. It was the mental side he could no longer deal with. The feeling that he had let everyone down and he was completely unworthy of everyone's kindness. Then there was the flow-on effect, the impact on his friends and colleagues at the station. On top of that was the knowledge that he wasn't the man he thought he was. And finally, the thoughts of the future already solidifying into something appalling.
And the ghost. He had to do something about the ghost.
He hauled himself out of bed and took another swig of bourbon. He swiped the shadow of Angus off the chair at his desk and sat down. He opened one side of the curtain so there was enough ambient light to see by. He found a piece of paper and pen.
He didn't hesitate. He wrote without pause because the words were already arranged in his head. He wrote the things he couldn't say out loud but needed to be heard.
78.
Mort had slept late and made himself a cooked breakfast of bacon and eggs. And bourbon. He knew he'd need something solid in his guts to make it through the morning. Krista was at work until 2pm. It was nearly midday before he finally set off.
He pulled his car up in Roy’s front yard. He sat for a moment. No one had noticed his arrival yet. He grabbed his bottle of bourbon. He swished it around. It was still about half full. He took a gulp, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He steadied himself against the side of the car before walking across to the front door.
He had to do this. There was no other way. The weight of the lies threatened to crush him. He had chosen the wrong way these past weeks. Now he was making the right choice.
He knocked loudly on the door. The front curtain twitched, followed by the hushed voices. It was a long minute before Roy answered the door.
"Mort."
"Hello Roy."
Roy looked him up and down.
"What the fuck? You're drunk. Did you drive here drunk?" Roy stuck his hands into the pockets of his pants, rummaging around.
"I've got to talk to you Roy. I've wanted to do it for a while. I'm sorry I didn't come sooner." Mort watched Roy sway back and forth, except he didn't. Roy was the one standing still.
Roy regarded him coldly. He had his phone in his hand now. "What the fuck's going on?"
Mort hiccoughed and put a hand on the front wall of the house to take his weight.
"I need to tell you something," Mort said. "About Angus. About what happened that night."
Roy fiddled with his phone briefly, then sized Mort up.
"Start talking, copper.
79.
John watched as Roy Hegarty came barrelling up to the front door. Roy shoved open the door like he was pushing someone over. John ushered Anita away from the counter and placed himself front and centre.
"Where is he?" Roy screamed as he entered the station and banged both fists against the security glass that separated him from the station. "Where the fuck is that little lying murderer?"
John stood his ground, trusting the security glass to do its job. "Settle down, Roy!" he commanded, holding both hands up as a stop signal.
"Where’s Mort! The cockhead who murdered my brother!"
"No. Mort did not murder your brother. It was an accident."
"Accident, my arse. He was just at my house and fucken confessed everything."
"What?" Piero had appeared by his side.
"Mort just turned up at my house, drunk as ten men, and tried to apologise to me. Finally admitted he killed Angus. I got one punch in before he got away from me. Now I want to finish the little bastard off." He smashed the security glass again with open palms to make his point.
John exchanged glances with Piero. What the hell had Mort done?
"Roy," John said. "We know nothing about his. Mort is not here at the station. We’re extremely concerned about what you've just told us and finding Mort is an immediate and urgent priority. But please, leave it to us."
"What? So you can fucken bail him out and cover it up? I recorded it all. He can lie all he wants to you, but I've got the proof on my phone. We've been chasing justice. Now we know it was murder and he will pay with his blood."
Roy smashed the base of his balled-up fist against the glass, turned on his heel and stalked out.
John and Piero turned to each other.
"Oh god, we need to find Mort," Piero whispered.
80.
Mort sideswiped a wheelie bin, cursed and straightened the steering wheel. He leant forward in his seat and tried to concentrate on the road. He focussed on keeping left of the white line down the middle of the road. But his mind would drift and then so would the car. He reached for the bottle of bourbon in the drink holder in the centre console and took another swig. He didn't notice he was on the wrong side of the road until a car came in the other direction. Another wild swing of the steering wheel. The other car honked and the driver made an angry gesture. The turn-off flashed by. He hit the brakes hard and pulled down on the steering wheel so the back end slid around in a half a doughnut. He successfully took the turn-off the second time past.
Mort rubbed at his nose and his hand came away smeared with blood. He stared at the red patch momentarily confused by it. Then he remembered the flash of white pain when Roy had punched him. His nose would be broken. It would probably bleed for a while yet.
He looked across at Angus in the passenger seat. For the first time, he was smiling. Not a mean smile. He looked happy.
“Nearly there, mate,” Mort murmured.
He pulled up in the carpark. It was empty. He got out and allowed himself a smile too. The pressure that had been building for so long now had been released. The truth was powerful.
He stood in the sunshine and stretched his arms up towards the sky. It was a beautiful day, the type of day when anything was possible. He reached into the car for his bourbon bottle. The heat was making him thirsty. Sweat mixed in with the blood trickling from his nose, salty and sweet as it reached his lips. He washed it down with bourbon and started walking.
He wished Roy had seen Angus standing next to him when he'd gone to his house. He wished he'd seen him smile. But ghosts were picky about who they revealed themselves to. It was all beside the point now. Roy would have gone to the station by now. Everyone would know. They'd know what he had done. They'd know who Mort was.
Formerly a police officer. Now a murderer.
81.
Krista was standing directly behind the wall next to the door that led to the front counter. She wanted to hear what was said without being se
en. She could have said she didn't want to be seen by Roy as that had the potential to rile him up even further. But the truth was she was scared. Scared of Roy. Scared of what he was saying.
Piero and John hurried through the doorway as soon as she heard the front door bang shut, signalling Roy’s departure. She'd had no time to move from her coward's hiding spot. But Piero didn't seem to care. As soon as he noticed her, he grabbed her arm.
"Krista! Good. Is Mort in the barracks? You've got the keys? Come on." He hustled her out the back door.
"Did you hear what Roy said?" Once again, he didn't pause to let her answer. "We've got to find Mort. Find him before Roy gets him. Find him before he does something stupid."
The front door of the barracks was unlocked. Piero went first calling Mort's name. He went straight down to Mort's bedroom. The door was closed. As Krista followed him through the lounge room, she noticed something on the kitchen table. Something that hadn't been there when she went to her shift.
It was a note. A long note, written on both sides of the paper. She picked it up. There was something underneath it. A familiar black case. She flipped it open. Mort’s police badge.
Krista sat down heavily. She tried to call out to Piero but her voice caught in her throat.
She read through the note quickly, the important words jumping off the page at her. How many times had he written the word 'sorry'?
Piero emerged from Mort's bedroom.
"He's not..." Upon seeing the look on Krista's face and hurried across.
She handed him the note, her jittery urgency being replaced with horror.
He read it, the colour draining from his face. "We've got to find him. Where would he go?"
They stared at each other.
"I think I know," Krista whispered.
82.