by Angus McLean
While his wife plotted her revenge, and his nephew dug graves for his two dead sons, Curtis Green went around the side of the barn and violated his niece for a hit of meth.
Thirty-One
With sore feet and aching bodies, Gemma and Alex had called a halt before dusk. They found a spot near a wooded area where they were out of sight of any houses and the road, set up the A-frame tarpaulin shelter like they had on the first night, and got the ground coverings down to be as comfortable as they could be.
Gemma cleared a patch of dirt and set about making a fire, using twigs and moss that they gathered for tinder and preparing some larger twigs for kindling. In her daypack was a snap-lock bag with cotton wool balls and a lighter, and she quickly got the fire going. She carefully added twigs until they had a small but satisfying fire, and the glow of it brought a warm peacefulness that neither of them had felt in days.
Alex opened a tin of baked beans using Gemma’s multi-tool, and set it in the embers at the edge of the fire. It gave her an idea, and she took out the can of Coke she’d been carrying since the day before. She downed it as quickly as she could then used the multi-tool to cut the top off.
After rinsing it out, she punched a hole in each side near the top and threaded a green stick through as a handle. She formed two X’s with more green sticks and string and dug them into the ground on either side of the fire, half-filled the can with water and hung it over the fire.
‘Bloody clever,’ Alex observed, giving his baked beans a stir.
Gemma grinned to herself. It felt like a small victory in a shitty situation. Soon enough the water was boiling and she tipped it over a packet of instant noodles in a small plastic bowl she’d taken from Alex’s house. She added the flavour sachet and let them sit to absorb the water, before stirring in a can of tuna.
They sat and ate their meals in silence, the first hot meal they’d had in three days, as the night got darker and the breeze picked up.
‘Oh my God,’ Gemma said, licking her spoon. ‘That was fantastic.’
‘Best baked beans I’ve ever had,’ Alex agreed. ‘I don’t even care that I burnt my fingers.’ He foraged in his bag. ‘Peanut butter sandwich for dessert?’
‘Why not?’ Gemma took one from him and tucked in. They had hardly eaten all day and she hadn’t realised how hungry she was until they’d stopped. She was also not drinking enough water, so cracked open a bottle and determined to lift her intake the next day. All going well they should hit home the next day, and the thought of it made her heart kick with anticipation. She couldn’t wait to see Archie and Mark, her parents, and even Jenny-the-battle-axe would get a hug. What she would give to be in her own home with her family, her own surroundings and her own things.
As the darkness became complete, they reluctantly let the fire burn down and sat, watching the embers. It was a comforting sight, warming both physically and psychologically.
By the time Gemma wrapped herself in her blanket and closed her eyes, she had a clear vision in her head and a renewed determination for the new day.
Thirty-Two
The burial ceremony for Henry, Donald and TK had been a rough and ready affair. As with all funerals in their community it had ended with a lot of drinking and drug smoking, the inevitable fights and blood being shed.
The other boy who had been wounded in the shootout, Skins, had taken a swing at Cyrus, and the two wounded boys had ended up rolling round on the ground throwing wild punches and hurting themselves more than they did each other. Jake had sorted it out by hooking both of them, even though he was barely able to stand after a box of 8% bourbon mixers.
Come dawn, some of the mourners were still going. When Aroha got to the community hall to check on the wounded, she found Jake asleep on the porch with a can still in his fist. Two women – gang sluts that Aroha had never liked, despite them being her cousin’s nieces – were sitting in deck chairs, still at it. One was slouched over the side, a dead smoke protruding from the greasy hair over her face, muttering something unintelligible. The other was giggling at her and, between swigs from her can, throwing pebbles at her sister. Aroha could see a wet stain at the front of that one’s jeans where she’d either spilled her drink or pissed herself.
Aroha frowned and tut-tutted as she went by, grabbing a torch from inside the door of the hall. With no power on, it was still dark inside. Stepping around sleeping and passed-out locals, she made her way to the makeshift first aid station she had set up. Skins, Cyrus, TK and Tintz were all there on mattresses on the floor. Before she got to them, Aroha could smell death.
The boys were passed out, probably with concussion on top of their hangovers, and Tintz was on his side. Completely still. She shone the torch on his face and saw his eyes open, staring blindly. Blood had dried and crusted around his mouth. Aroha bent down and touched his battered face. Cold and waxy, pale in the light. She sighed to herself, pulled the thin blanket up over his face and straightened up.
She manoeuvred her way back to the front door and out to the porch. Jake was snoring loudly and she knew it would be hours before she got any sense out of him.
She stepped past him, past the two drunken sluts, and headed towards her own house.
Things needed to be done, but now was not the time.
Thirty-Three
Jake Roimata woke with a headache that had only one possible cure.
He prepared a pipe and settled back against the wall of the community hall, his knees up in front, so he could see the main drag. Not much movement at this time of the morning, being just past dawn. Grey light was spreading over his world and the breeze was cool.
He sparked the pipe with his Bic and took the first drag, sucking the fumes up the glass pipe from the bowl. The first hit was never the best in his view; it was just a taster, the sweetener before the nectar. The second and third were what got the juices going and he worked his way steadily, the point of meth gone within two minutes.
Jake had been smoking this shit, more on than off, for close to twenty years. Started as a kid. Weed by ten, mushrooms and acid as a teen, anything else he could get his hands on to try. Nothing really grabbed him that much until meth exploded in the early 2000’s, and that was when he found his mojo.
It was everywhere, taking over from weed as the most readily-available drug on the streets at one time, and he got right into it. Fucked him up and he lost some years, had to get dried out and spent some time in a psych ward, but he got through that and came out the other side cleaner and harder.
Decided the best way forward was to harness the dragon. Moved to Aussie, took to dealing it hard-out, earned his patch with the Bandits and worked his way up in the gang. Still using but not letting it run his life. Dudes did that lost their shit, did dumb shit and got locked up, fucked up or dead.
Earned the Sergeant-at-Arms role through sheer brutality. The enforcer of the gang had to be hard, had to be mean, and that was Jake all over. He dealt out more beatings for rule breaks than he could remember, ran the guns, did the standovers, fronted the other gangs when there was trouble. Had one legend rumble with the Angels, put two of them in hospital even with a broken arm. Fucked up some Bandidos, stabbed a cop and got himself a rep second to none. There was no line in the sand with Jake – when it was on, it was on.
His hard work for the gang paid off, earning him rewards he never would have got if he’d taken a different route. More cash, drugs and whores than he could ever have imagined. Didn’t help him much though when he finally went down for stabbing the cop. Got ten years, gave up his office as Sergeant-at-Arms to Little Dog, and did his time. Still dealt drugs inside, bribed screws, organised hits. It was a way of life. Got stabbed himself, four different times – one nearly killed him – but kept on coming back. The fact he seemed indestructible just added to the legend that was Jake Roimata. Didn’t need a nickname, he was just Jake. Everyone knew Jake.
Boots crunched on gravel and he looked up. Tintz was there, shades on as usual. It was barely day
light and the cock was wearing shades. Jake sighed inwardly. He’d never understood why Henry was mates with the dude.
‘All goods?’
Jake put the pipe down and considered the man for a few moments. ‘Na. Not really, eh.’
Tintz nodded, scuffed the ground with his boot and sniffed. ‘Gotta smoke, bro?’
Jake squinted at him. ‘No, I don’t gotta smoke, bro.’
Tintz looked at him, like he was ready to say something but changed his mind. He scuffed the ground again.
‘An’ where the fuck were you?’ Jake said.
‘Whaddaya mean?’
‘Where the fuck were you when your best mate, your bro Henry, was getting shot up? Where the fuck were you?’
Tintz looked offended and set his jaw. His fists bunched. Before he could reply, Jake was at him again.
‘Yeah? That it? You get all fuckin’ staunch with me eh, but where were you when your bro was getting killed?’
Tintz was puffing now, getting proper mad. Jake didn’t let up. It had been bothering him that Tintz hadn’t been there, that Henry had died with a bunch of the young boys. Nobody there to watch his black ass.
‘You scared, bro? That it? You rather let ol’ Henry go out and do the dog work while you stay nice and safe back here?’ Jake got to his feet and stepped down to the same level, nice and easy. A few people were traipsing out now, hearing what was going on. Someone watched from a window across the road.
‘I ain’t fuckin’ scared, bro,’ Tintz growled., but there was an unmistakable waver to his voice. ‘Don’t…just fuckin’ don’t say that.’
‘Or what?’ Jake spread his arms and looked around him. ‘I don’t see your army, bro. So what if I speak the truth? People know, they know what you are Tintz.’ His eyes narrowed and he stepped forward, game face on now. ‘You’re a fuckin’ coward.’
Tintz huffed and clenched but knew well enough to keep his mouth shut.
‘See?’ Jake looked around at the people watching. ‘This is it; this is the truth. This faggot’s a fuckin’ coward and he let my brother die.’
‘That’s not true, Jake,’ Tintz snapped, the waver gone now. He was no Jake or Little Dog but, like them, he was a career criminal who’d been in more than his share of scrapes. He was smart enough to be scared of Jake, but he also wasn’t going to be slagged off like that, especially not in front of his bros. A rep was earned hard and lost easy, and he could see his circling the drain right now. Fuckin’ Jake.
‘Oh, eh?’ Jake sneered at him, almost laughing.
‘Yeah.’ Tintz huffed and puffed a bit, considering his next move. There was a lot riding on it. For a moment it seemed like Jake was gunna let it slide and Tintz felt a flicker of relief.
Then Jake smirked and made a wanking motion. Tintz snapped.
‘And where the fuck were you, bro?’ he demanded. ‘You reckon I left Henry out on his own – where were you?’ He saw Jake’s lips go tight and knew he’d tipped the scales. Fuck it, too late now. ‘Why weren’t you with him, eh bro?’
Jake took two steps forward and unleashed hell. A flurry of straight jabs to Tintz’s face smashed his shades and knocked them off, snapped his head back and sent him stumbling backwards, desperately trying not to go down. You go down and you’re dead, and he could tell that Jake was intent on that.
Tintz managed to get his dukes up and block a couple but he was outgunned and in the shit. Jake came forward like a wrecking ball, fury in his eyes and his blood up. Tintz knew he’d made a fatal mistake with that one comment but he couldn’t take it back now – he just had to try and hang in there as best he could.
Jake had delivered more beatings in his life than he could remember, and this was going to be the mother of all beatings if Tintz dared to try and fight him. He smashed his fists into his opponent; face, head, gut, ribs, whatever target presented itself to him. Tintz managed to throw a loose fist now and again but he was backpedalling flat out, and even though some of the punches landed they had no power behind them.
Tintz backed into the side of a shit-box Falcon parked at the side of the road and tried to sidestep, but there was no time.
Jake was on him, gut punching him – right, left, right, left – and a monster right hook as he started to slump. The lights went out even before he hit the deck like a sack of shit.
But it wasn’t over.
Jake’s boots came in, slamming into his ribs, gut, back, legs, then stomping, working up the body to the head. He gave his first boot to the head and was winding up for the second when a hand took his arm.
He whirled, fists up, ready to deal to whoever dared to interfere.
Aroha’s rheumy brown eyes stared into his face, and she was frowning. His fist stopped halfway to knocking her head off.
‘That’s enough, Jake,’ she said firmly. She squeezed his arm. ‘That’s enough.’
‘Nan,’ he growled, his breathing laboured. ‘He…’
The old lady nodded. ‘I know what he said, my boy. I know what he said. But that’s enough. We got a burial to prepare for, eh? Been enough blood spilled here.’
Jake sucked in air and looked down at Tintz. The gangster was motionless on the ground, bleeding from his nose and mouth and from cuts to his face. Jake didn’t know if he was dead, or maybe he would die later. Who knew; who cared?
He gave a short nod and stepped back, releasing Aroha’s grip on his arm. Been a time she would’ve whooped his ass for fighting. No more, but she was still his Nan.
Aroha turned and gestured towards some of the boys watching.
‘Here, you boys. Come and pick him up. Get him inside.’
They jumped to it, and Jake watched as they carried Tintz’s unconscious form into the hall. Aroha turned to him.
‘Go and get yourself washed up, get some breakfast.’ She patted his cheek. ‘Eh, boy?’
Jake wiped a hand over his face. ‘Yeah, Nan.’ He took her hand from his cheek and squeezed it. ‘Okay.’
Thirty-Four
Three days with no sign of Gemma was driving me crazy. I’d expected her to be home by now, and knowing what was happening out there filled me with dread for her wellbeing.
It was possible that she’d gone to a friend’s house and was holed up there, or maybe a cop station. Civil Defence would have been mobilised and she could have been caught up with them. Maybe she was still making her way home – by the state of the roads, she was probably on foot – and would arrive at some stage soon. Or maybe she wasn’t coming home.
That thought wasn’t one I could afford to entertain. To do so would change the playing field, and it was a rough pitch already. Archie was hanging out to see her too, and Rob and Sandy, and even my own mother was concerned. The events of the day before had had a profound affect on us all, one I hadn’t anticipated at the time.
My mother had gone quiet and I knew she was working it over in her head, processing it all. I had tried to debrief it with her and give her some perspective, but she was a stubborn old mule and I don’t know if she took much onboard from what I said. Maybe I wasn’t the best person for the job; I wasn’t having much of an issue so far with my own actions. Probably my previous experience helped with that, but I believed it was more of a mindset. I had no problem fighting violence with violence. I wasn’t a thug who went looking for it, but when it happened, I could deal with it.
My mother, on the other hand, was in her late sixties and had never entered my world before. Hearing about it and living it were different beasts.
Sandy and Rob were shaken but seemed okay, and I wasn’t too concerned about them. The wee man, Archie, had barely left my side. He’d slept in my bed and woke with a bad dream at one point, and I’d cuddled him and got him back to sleep. We’d taken our time in the morning, reading a couple of books in bed and eating breakfast together.
We had walked around the property after that, checked on the animals and fed them, collected some eggs and threw a ball for Jethro. It was as close to a normal weekend day as it
could get, if I hadn’t been wearing a gun belt and carrying a rifle.
Archie had wanted to see the pistol and I had let him handle it once I’d unloaded. He had grown up around guns and wasn’t scared of them, but he did have a healthy respect for them and had fired the Ruger 10/22 before. When he was older he’d be getting his own .22, but with the way things were now, it may be coming sooner rather than later.
As we waited for Jethro to bring the ball back, I wondered if Gemma had come across any trouble. It seemed inevitable that she would, and I was confident that she would make good decisions, so hopefully would either avoid danger or work her way out of it safely.
Like Archie, she had handled firearms before – all the guns I had bar the Browning, which she didn’t know about – including a Para Ordnance .45 a mate had brought over for a shoot up. If she found herself in a situation with guns, hopefully she would remember enough to be effective.
Aside from that, I knew she had enough kit in her get-home bag to sustain her for 24 hours. If she had it. She was fit enough and experienced enough at hiking to walk home from the city.
So many variables though, it was impossible to guess. I just needed to be patient.
Jethro bounded back and dropped the slobbery tennis ball at Archie’s feet, looking hopeful.
‘Gross,’ Archie grinned, picking the ball up gingerly. He screwed his nose up at the slobber dripping off it. ‘That’s disgusting, Jethro.’
‘Come on,’ I said, ‘let’s go see what your grandparents are doing, wee man.’
I took the ball from him and we headed back to the house, Jethro nosing at the ball in my hand, wanting more play. I tossed it towards the house and he raced after it. I pulled Archie into my side as we walked and gave him a squeeze.
‘Alright there, buddy?’
‘Yep.’ Archie looked up at me. ‘I think Grandma’s a bit sad though, Dad. About those robbers that came yesterday.’