Blindside

by J. R. Carroll

  ‘I’m supposed to wait outside the house until you’re not there,’ Wes was saying. ‘Then I knock on the door, pacify her with a clip on the chin and put her in the trunk of the car.’

  Jo’s eyes were wide as she gripped Shaun’s arm.

  ‘Listen, Wes,’ Shaun said. ‘I think you’d better get yourself over here ASAP.’

  ‘Fine,’ Wes said. ‘I’m on the way. Be there in fifteen.’

  Inside an hour they were at the kitchen table with a heady mix of adrenaline and fresh coffee in the air. The seating arrangement was the same as the first time: Wes on one side of the table, Shaun and Jo facing him, next to each other. One difference: she wasn’t all over him this time.

  In the middle of the table was the replica Browning. Shaun picked it up, hefted it. It was a lot lighter than the real thing, and the parts that were supposed to move did not, but it would pass at a glance. No-one was going to argue if it was shoved in her face. He put it down and fired up a Lucky. Jo already had one going.

  ‘Fill us in, Wes,’ he said. ‘Don’t leave anything out.’

  Wes was leaning back in his chair, hands clasped across his lap. His eyes repeatedly moved from one to the other as he spoke. ‘We left the Unicorn in his car,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know where we were going. When I asked, he told me to shut up. That’s the nature of our relationship. I was getting scared again, because it was night and he was heading into a dodgy area— off Lorimer Street, in West Melbourne, past the car auction joints. It’s all factories and scrapyards. He turned into this property . . . there was an iron gate with a couple of big padlocks on it. He opened it and we went in.’

  ‘Hang on,’ Shaun said. ‘How’d he open it?’

  ‘He used keys. I watched him in the headlights.’

  ‘Okay. Go on.’

  ‘It was a container depot—hundreds of them stacked on top of each other. The place was overrun with crap and weeds. It was deserted,derelict,just all these decommissioned containers everywhere. Anyway he drove in and pulled up. Then we got out of the car and I followed him. He had a powerful flashlight, one of those police jobs. He showed me this particular container, made me memorise its number: APG 11988. That’s the one I’m supposed to put you in, Jo. Bound and blindfolded.’

  Jo shrank back a little. ‘I am definitely not going in that container.’

  ‘Of course you’re not,’ Shaun said, as if such a suggestion was not even on the table. To Wes: ‘What happens then? Once you’ve put her in it.’

  ‘I call Fat Man and disappear. He then swings by and checks that she’s really there. I guess he doesn’t trust me. Then he . . . well, he didn’t say in so many words, but once he has Jo in a box he’s in a strong position to deal with you, right? To get whatever he wants.’

  ‘Right,’ Shaun said. ‘Go back—he said that he’d swing by and check she was in it?’

  ‘Sure did.’

  ‘Excuse me—he wants to hold me as a hostage?’ Jo said.

  ‘That seems to be the plan,’ Wes said.

  They all thought about it, then Jo gave a contemptuous snort and said, ‘Well, fuck his filthy pig’s hide. What a total scumbag. Who the fuck does he think—’

  Cutting her off, Shaun said, ‘You deliver her to the container alone, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘There’s no-one else involved, just you and Simmonds?’

  ‘As far as I’m aware.’

  ‘How do you get into the yard? Did he give you any keys?’

  Wes reached into his pants pocket, produced two silver Lockwood keys and held them up for all to see.

  ‘They’ll be the spares,’ Shaun said. ‘Assuming he’s cut off the original padlocks and replaced them with his own, which is probably the case—it’s standard practice for an old-fashioned factory B and E. Those keys look brand new.’

  ‘They are,’ Wes said.

  ‘If it’s a derelict container depot, he can probably count on no-one coming around to discover the locks’ve been replaced for a while. Even if they do, and change ’em again, it’s no problem. He only has to repeat the procedure. It wouldn’t necessarily arouse any suspicion. When their keys didn’t work they’d just think the locks were fucked and get new ones. Did you happen to notice an office, or shed, where an attendant might hang out during the day?’

  ‘No,’ Wes said.‘No buildings, and no dogs either. Just rusted out old containers. It’s a dump.’

  It sounded to Shaun as if Simmonds knew the premises pretty well. Perhaps he’d used it before.

  ‘What else, Wes?’

  Wes produced a bundle of notes from his shirt pocket, all pristine hundreds. He spread them out on the table alongside the replica Browning, like a hand of cards. There were ten of them.

  ‘Compared to the pittance he usually slings me, this is serious money,’ he said. ‘And I’m supposed to cop the same again . . . on delivery.’

  They all stared at the currency, and judging from Jo’s expression it might have been laced with rat poison.

  ‘That’s what I’m worth?’ she said.‘Two lousy grand? That cheap son of—’

  Shaun cut in and said, ‘When does he want it done?’

  ‘Soon. Tonight. Provided you’re not around.’

  They all dropped into silence for a while. Shaun was drumming on the table with his fingers. Jo lit up another cigarette and angrily blew some smoke at the ceiling fan.

  ‘Christ,’ she said. ‘Two thousand. I don’t believe it.’

  Shaun said, ‘What else can you tell us, Wes? Come on, anything at all that might help.’

  Wes sat up and shrugged. ‘Well, not much . . . only, when he came down the stairs with the publican, it looked to me as if he’d just put something in his inside pocket. Maybe it was the gun.’

  ‘Maybe it was.’

  ‘That’s about it. He drove me back to the Unicorn, paid me off in his car outside the pub and told me to get going and get on it. His parting words were that if I breathed one word about this to anyone, he’d wring my neck like a rabbit’s.’

  Shaun thought, he’ll do that anyway. Has to. Stakes are too high to leave loose ends . . .

  ‘I’ll tell you another thing,’ Jo said. She was mightily pissed off. ‘There’s no way I’m going in the trunk of anyone’s car.’

  ‘You don’t have to, baby,’ Shaun said.

  Slightly—grudgingly—mollified,she studied his expression: a faintly amused and self-satisfied one she recognised in herself. Clearly he had a plan. She wondered what it was.

  At around 11 pm Shaun swung Raydon’s Land Rover right off Lorimer Street, down a darkened area that was almost devoid of street lighting. Simmonds was smart, no question. It was an industrial wasteland: no-one would ever notice whatever he was up to here. In front of him Wes Ford’s brake lights came on as they approached a property with a high cyclone wire fence. Shaun drove by, pulled into a driveway, reversed and parked the vehicle some distance along the street. Wes was already busy opening the locks with the aid of his headlights, as Simmonds had done. When he had them opened he pushed the gates inward, climbed back into the Commodore and drove in. After pulling on a pair of woollen gloves Shaun locked and alarmed the Rover and slipped into the yard. Even though there was no-one around, he couldn’t help but feel Simmonds’ eyes on him from somewhere unseen. The big man was a survivor over a long period. In that time very few people ever got the better of him.

  Wes locked the gates again. They both got aboard the Commodore and travelled deeper into the property, among the hulks of disused containers. When he stopped, Shaun could just see the number on the side of the box in front of them: APG 11988. Out they got, with the car lights aimed at the rear end of the container.

  There were four vertical bolts, two for each door. They released the right-side pair, allowing them to open the right door. There was easily enough room for a man to enter. They stood there for a second and Shaun said,‘Okay, as soon as you hit the road get on the phone and tell him the job’s done.’r />
  ‘Right,’ Wes said. ‘Sure you’ll be okay?’ He was looking dubiously into the open mouth of the box. It was not inviting.

  ‘Fucking hope so, man. I’ve got a phone, but I dunno if I’ll be able to use it in there. Don’t forget, if I don’t call you in the meantime, come back and spring me by ten in the morning. If Simmonds doesn’t show for some reason I don’t wanna stay in this fuckin’ coffin any longer than I have to.’

  ‘Gotcha,’ Wes said. ‘Anything else you need?’

  Shaun had a large bottle of water in one hand and a flashlight in the other. ‘No. I’ll be all right. Where’re you going now?’

  Wes shrugged. ‘Home, I guess. Unless Fat Man has other plans for me.’

  ‘Okay. Well . . . stay tuned.’

  Shaun entered the black hole of the container. Wes then shut the door and slid the two bolts home to lock him in. He stood there a second, picturing Shaun inside the container. Wes would never have done that: one thing he couldn’t stand was being trapped in a confined space. It was the main reason he dreaded going to prison. How this guy did it for eleven years and came out in one piece he would never understand. He gave the container a couple of bangs on the door and left.

  Inside, it was pitch black. Shaun selected a spot near the opening and sat down against a wall. The air was musty and quite stifling. There were loose fragments of rust on the floor. He switched on the flashlight and checked the time: 11.20. He turned it off again, conscious of saving the batteries, and stood it upright next to him. Wherever you were, in whatever situation, you made your camp to suit yourself as best you could. He removed the gloves, unscrewed the water bottle and took a decent mouthful. He was slightly dehydrated from the wine the previous night, so it was essential to drink plenty of water. His thoughts turned to the scores of people who died crammed in a container after travelling halfway across the world in a people-smuggling racket. They died from suffocation and dehydration, and from his current perspective it wasn’t hard to see how that could happen.

  He leaned his head back against the wall. He was in a void of perfect silence. All he could hear was his own breathing, and then, the ticking of his watch. He withdrew his cigarettes from the side pocket of the bomber jacket he was wearing and put one in his mouth without lighting it. It was airless enough in the box without advancing the process. In a while he began wondering how long the air would last, how long he had before suffocation began. It would be a slow, insidious process, and through it he would become weaker and weaker, until he passed out. By then it would be too late.

  ‘So, here we are,’ he said aloud. He gave an ironic little laugh. ‘Out of one bin, into the other. Woo-woo.’

  He checked his watch at 11.50, then again at 12.20. Time was passing with incredible slowness. He got up and stretched his legs. Wouldn’t help if he had stiff joints when the time came—if it came. After a while he sat down again in the same spot.

  ‘Come on, you fat fucker,’ he said.‘I haven’t got all fucking night.’

  He had another swig of water, and poured some over his face. Even though it was a mild night, he was feeling excessively warm now. He felt as if he were generating his own heat. As he sat there waiting, a range of thoughts found their way into his mind, some bidden, others not. He thought about Jo, about how cool she was and about how she was the other part of him, the half he recognised as soon as he saw her in that bar in Buzzards Hut. She saw it too, even then. Across the bar they saw each other, and both knew that was it, end of story. Wham! How easily everything fell into place when you both knew that from the start. The whole process was a lot simpler.

  And now here he was, sitting in a box.

  Waiting.

  In a while he experienced his first shiver of fear. He was locked into this box, and could not get out. He was completely dependent on someone releasing him. What if Simmonds didn’t show up? What if Wes Ford crashed his car and died? Jo only knew he was in a container somewhere off Lorimer Street—would that be enough information to find him? Christ. Even if she found the right address, there were so many boxes here . . .

  But Wes was not going to crash his car.

  Bill Simmonds would come eventually. He was playing safe, turning up in the dead heart of night to be sure of not being seen.

  One thought led to another. What about Wes Ford? What if he had double-crossed them? What if . . . he and Simmonds had orchestrated this whole situation, putting Wes inside the house to befriend them, gain their trust? What if the plan was to remove Shaun from the picture so they could snatch Jo? So . . . Wes produces this cock and bull story about him abducting Jo and putting her in a container, knowing Shaun would want to turn the scam around, putting himself in the box so he could surprise Simmonds when he swung by. Or, if Shaun hadn’t come up with that idea, maybe Wes would have. It made sense. Then, when they had Jo stashed away somewhere, they came for Shaun and told him to come up with the cash if he wanted to see her alive again . . .

  He’d played right into their hands.

  What made him think he could trust Wes Ford? Not much, apart from gut instinct. Gut instinct. It was a crucial asset for any good detective. But . . . Christ, if he couldn’t trust Mitch Alvarez—as Turner would have him believe—how could he possibly trust a total stranger with an agenda of his own and angles to play that Shaun didn’t even know existed? We believe what we want to believe, no matter what the facts tell us . . .

  ‘You stupid fuck,’ he said.

  Now he was recalling Leon Turner saying everything was down to him, because he was dumb enough to get caught. The truth of this statement had preyed on Shaun for years. It wasn’t why he snapped. No, it was the superior, shit-eating way Turner pronounced it, as if Shaun’s shortcomings somehow outweighed or vindicated Turner’s lifetime of misdeeds.

  ‘You stupid fuck,’ he said again. Your gut instinct isn’t worth shit.

  No-one was coming for him tonight.

  They’d leave him in here to rot for a while, then he’d be half-dead and helpless to resist when they did come. But they couldn’t let him die, not if they wanted the contents of that safe deposit box. He had the keys to it in his pocket, but they were useless to anyone else because only Shaun knew where to find the box, which bank it was in. He had to sign for it before he could clear the contents. Of course there was no reason to assume Simmonds had figured out the money was in a safe deposit box, but it was a commonsense thing to do with such a large amount.

  He’d probably ransack the house first, then by process of elimination come to the logical conclusion that it had to be sitting in a box, somewhere in a bank vault. They’d probably find the hundred grand, but would that satisfy them? Not likely.

  Sooner or later, they’d have to come for him, because he was the only one who could lead them to the cash . . .

  All kinds of wild thoughts swirled around in his brain: what if Jo was in it with them? What if it had been no coincidence that they’d met in Buzzards Hut, but part of a long-range plan, a fall-back position if Bernie Walsh wasn’t able to come through?

  Bullshit. The money had been stored in the house, it was right there in front of her eyes. That was the time to snatch it, not now.

  He lowered his head and chastised himself for even entertaining such thoughts. He was beginning to see how a person could go insane in this situation.

  Time check: 1.35 am.

  He played the beam around. It was becoming uncomfortably close and foetid. How those people could have survived as long as they did, squashed in the way they were, was beyond him. But desperate people will do suicidal things if there is a single glimmer of hope, if the alternative is worse . . .

  He stood the flashlight up in front of him so that it lit up the roof, and withdrew the .32 from his inside jacket pocket. Then, for something to do, he took out all the bullets and carefully reloaded them before ramming the clip back in the butt and working the slide to make sure there was one in the pipe. He hoped he didn’t have to use it—if and when Simmonds made
his appearance. In a confined space such as this a stray bullet would ricochet off every surface until it hit someone, and the bullet wouldn’t discriminate. It would lose plenty of velocity and get banged out of shape, but could still do fatal or serious damage. He put the compact semi-automatic back in his pocket. Just having it was some comfort. Edginess slowly seeped into him, and he tried to squeeze it away.

  He decided to call Jo. Somewhat to his surprise the signal was reasonable.

  ‘Hello there,’ he said.

  ‘Hello,’ she said a touch nervously. ‘Are you there? In that thing?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘God, I don’t know how you can do it. How are you?’

  ‘So far, so good. Whose dumb idea was this, anyway?’

  ‘It’s creepy,’ she said. ‘I don’t like it.’

  ‘Me neither. But hey, one night in the lock-up? I can do that.’

  ‘Wish you were here instead.’

  ‘Same here. And I will be soon. I’d better go, baby. Anything happens, you’ll be the first to know.’ I hope.

  Soon he was face-down on the rusty floor doing push-ups, counting them out all the way to fifty. In prison he did four sets of fifty a day—on his fingertips to provide a tougher challenge. As a result of eleven years of this he had exceptional strength in his wrists and hands, and his fingers were like steel rods.

  Next, he did fifty sit-ups, lacing his hands behind his head and stretching forward so that his forehead alternately touched his left and right knees. When he hit fifty he sat up straight and gasped loudly. His heart pounded. He poured some water over his face and into his mouth.

  Time check: 2.15 am.

  ‘Come on!’ he said.

  Then: ‘All right, settle down. Don’t panic.’

  He switched off the light and sat still in the total darkness. There was no sound except the ticking of his watch. Then he realised he was holding his breath, and let the air out. If no-one came within twenty-four hours, he would never get out of this box alive. If Wes didn’t come by ten in the morning he was history. It was his tomb. He could bang the walls and scream all he liked, but who was going to hear him? No-fucking-one. A security patrol might drive by, check the locks and leave a card, but that would be it. What reason would anyone have for coming in here? None. It was a container graveyard.