But he went down just as hard as J did, and they both had a lot further to fall.
Sitting in the back seat of some armoured cop car thing as they sped away, J started to tremble.
The SOG guy sitting facing him still had all his camo stuff on and looked a hard, emotionless bastard.
J felt like he was losing it, like the animal inside him had started to panic. The screaming, the shouting, the chaos, the news cameras all shooting away: it had been too crazy. J was frightened he was going to start crying, or piss himself or something.
There was something wrong with him.
He couldn’t get his breath.
He tried to straighten, but there was something pressing in his back, keeping him bent over.
Pope wasn’t there. They’d taken him off in the sort of thing you see on a battlefield, not a suburban street.
It didn’t feel real, none of it, and, at the same time, it was the most real thing he’d ever felt. Everything was in overdrive—the smell of gasoline, the sounds—he could feel every jolt as the machine sped on. It was all so in your face he could hardly even think what it was about.
What the fuck had those idiots done?
J felt sick.
It was the closeness, the heat, the petrol fumes.
Looking up, he saw the SOG guy reach for his holster, and, pulling out his pistol, he pointed it straight at J’s head.
The two of them stared at one another.
J wasn’t thinking a thing; he was looking straight into the eyes of the other man. They were clear and blue, and he could see every vein.
Then he pulled the trigger.
EIGHT
J had never been in a police station before, not a suburban one and not this one, the biggest one in the state. Grey, vast, labyrinthine. He had his handcuffs taken off and was photographed and fingerprinted. He still didn’t know what he was there for.
He could see he had passed through the reassuring poster image of the Police Force Keeping You Safe into something else. Something a lot meaner. He hadn’t seen the cops who had shot Baz, but he wouldn’t have been surprised to find them among this lot of tough, sullen wallopers. They didn’t even pretend to like you here, because you were just something to be herded, a lump of meat, or worse.
Pope let them know he wasn’t frightened, but all that meant was that they pushed him harder. J knew that they would not hesitate to lay into them, no question, and they wouldn’t hold back.
Darren was there, too, looking scared and resentful, but not Craig. He was nowhere to be seen.
J guessed that whatever this was about, it had something to do with last night. Last night. Less than twelve hours ago. It took them less than twelve hours to figure out who’d done whatever they’d done. The boys had certainly proved what criminal geniuses they were.
When it was J’s turn to go into the grim underground interview room, he was ready to cop a bashing. He’d been in fights at school where he’d got held down, and he’d heard what the coppers did to you if they got you, so he was ready for it, or as ready as you can be. He didn’t think they would kill him, but he knew it would hurt.
‘G’day, Josh. I’m Detective Senior Sergeant Leckie,’ the skinny guy with the moustache in front of him was saying. ‘This is Detective Norris.’
J was tensing for the hiding he expected, so wasn’t really listening as Leckie introduced the third guy in the room.
‘Mr Harrop here is from the Department of Human Services.’
J didn’t even need to turn to have a look at him. All those guys looked and sounded the same.
‘It’s a requirement under the law when questioning anybody under the age of eighteen that they be accompanied by a guardian or legal representative, and in the absence of such a person, a department officer such as John here must be present.’
If Harrop was Human Services, what was Leckie? J couldn’t help himself and glanced around to look at Harrop. He’d put the boot in as well, if he could, J thought.
‘I must also advise you,’ Leckie was saying, ‘that you are under no obligation to say anything at this point in time, but anything you do say can be used as evidence in any later court appearances. Do you understand?’
Was he talking to him? Looking up, J saw he was. ‘Yeah,’ he answered sullenly.
‘Okay, this shouldn’t take too long,’ the guy said.
What was he going to do? Just pull out his gun and shoot him?
‘I’ve already been here for hours,’ J said. He didn’t know why he said it; just trying it on.
‘Yeah, I’m sorry about that,’ Leckie answered, as if he meant it. ‘It’s been a big day, as I’m sure you can understand.’
J didn’t understand anything. Not who these guys were, not what they wanted of him, not why he was sitting on a steel chair bolted to the floor in a grey room shitting himself.
‘Please state your full name.’
J figured he’d play along. It couldn’t do any harm to tell them his name. ‘Joshua Daniel Cody,’ he said. Usually when he said his name and got to the Cody bit, people raised their eyebrows, but the copper took it in his stride. Probably knew who he was, anyhow.
‘And do you know why you’re here, Josh?’
He was playing the good cop. J couldn’t wait to meet the bad one. ‘Wouldn’t have a clue,’ he said, acting tough.
Leckie didn’t really react. At school, an answer like that would have got some reaction, a whack or something, but Leckie just plugged on like everything was okay. ‘Right. Well, last night two police officers were shot dead investigating a stolen car.’
A part of J froze. But you would have had to have been his mother to notice it. It was something he’d learned from her. How not to reveal how you felt. It helped sometimes. Like now, with Leckie’s words reverberating inside his brain.
Two police officers were shot dead.
Investigating a stolen car.
J tried to comprehend what he’d just heard, but deep down a part close to his heart froze. They had killed two policemen.
‘Can you tell me where you were last night?’ Leckie asked, in that same neutral, even tone that invited you to be his friend.
J didn’t know what to say. How could he say anything? J wasn’t a crim, but he had learned how to play dumb. It came naturally where he was from. ‘I was at home,’ he said without emotion.
‘Okay,’ Leckie answered. ‘And what were you doing at home, Josh?’
He kept repeating his name, which was weird, because it wasn’t really his name at all. No-one ever called him Josh. Not ever.
‘Just watching TV,’ he said, trying to remember what Pope had told him to say and not panic.
The other copper, the heavy-set one—Norris—was sitting there, vibing him out.
‘Were your uncles with you as well?’ Leckie asked innocently.
J knew he was slowly being backed into a corner. His heart was pounding but he couldn’t think straight. He wasn’t prepared to risk jail protecting his uncles for killing two policemen. For killing anyone. He’d started to sweat, but it wasn’t showing just yet.
‘They were home,’ J replied, feigning tiredness, ‘but I fell asleep pretty early so I wouldn’t have a clue really what they were up to.’
Playing dumb was the best policy. That’s what his mother always said. That way they couldn’t trick you up.
‘I think they might have just been watching TV, sort of thing,’ he finished.
‘What were you watching?’ Leckie persisted. Leckie was all please and thank you sympathy; no need to be concerned, just asking some simple questions to put him off his guard.
‘I think it was Funniest Home Videos. I was pretty much just having a nap on the couch.’ He was winging it now: he didn’t even know if Funniest Home Videos had been on. He was hoping they wouldn’t pick it up.
‘And so at some point, all three of your uncles came into the room—is that right? Or maybe one of them? Or maybe two?’
He was trying to
confuse him, J knew that. Trip him up.
‘Can you tell me exactly who was there?’ Leckie asked.
‘No, I … I can’t really tell you,’ J said, trying to sound sincere, like he really wanted to help.
This was the game, back and forth. Leckie trying to probe him, J trying to avoid the issue and not say anything too conclusive that he couldn’t retract later.
‘I was that tired that I only remember that there were people around, but, you know, I can’t say who exactly; I basically had my eyes shut, sort of thing.’
J wondered if they were buying it. He thought he was handling himself pretty well. Of course, it’d be different when they started to thump him; he might cry—in fact, he definitely would cry.
‘You don’t remember who you heard?’ Leckie prodded.
Okay, time to give him something he could use to make him think it’s not a complete waste.
‘The reason I was so sleepy,’ J said, slowly unravelling the yarn, stretching it out to make it feel plausible, ‘is ’cause I’d smoked some marijuana and …’
He was saying anything so they would stop asking him questions and it would all be over. He wanted to go home.
‘… and, you know, I was knocked out, sort of thing.’ J figured the most they could do was charge him with possession. ‘You know, I didn’t want to have to tell you guys that,’ he concluded, just to hammer the point home.
But instead of reading him the riot act about drugs, like J’d thought he’d do, Leckie changed subject.
‘Do you remember where you were when you heard the news of Barry Brown’s death?’
Baz’s death. That was the connection. Still, he thought, it isn’t that bad, if that’s all they’ve got; that’s just circum— whatever it is … That word the lawyers are always using on CSI.
‘I was home,’ J said.
‘And how did the family take the news?’ Leckie asked, like he was offering a shoulder to cry on.
Yeah, sure, for all J knew, he was the one that pulled the trigger.
‘I … I imagine Craig was pretty upset,’ Leckie suggested.
Trying to say Craig did it.
J wondered. Maybe he had.
‘Yeah, he was sad,’ J said.
And when he said it, he suddenly remembered how sad he’d been himself, at the time, and later, and how he hadn’t even been that sad at his mother’s funeral. Not because he loved Baz more; he didn’t. Just because there’d been an accumulation of death, too much death, and it had started to get to him.
‘Sad in what way?’ Leckie asked, picking at the scab with his finely honed needle.
J wished he wouldn’t. He knew Leckie was doing his job, but he just wished he’d leave this one alone.
‘He was crying,’ J said.
‘You actually physically saw him crying?’
Alarmed that he might have said something incriminating, J ran it over again in his mind to see why Leckie might have found it interesting, but he couldn’t see anything. J was getting confused.
‘What did you see?’ Leckie asked.
‘His face was red,’ J answered, feeling trapped, annoyed, and beginning to get upset himself. ‘He had water coming out of his eyes and he was rubbing them.’
‘And how was he rubbing his eyes?’ Leckie asked.
He sounded like Pope—the kind of dumb, pointless things Pope’d say just to wear you down.
‘Like this,’ J said, and he started acting it out. ‘You know, just …’ He almost said boo-hoo, but thought the fat cop would clobber him for sure if he did that. The fat cop or the Inhuman Resources guy sitting behind him, grunting under his breath every time he said something suss.
‘And, ah …’ This guy Leckie wasn’t going to give up. It was like death by a thousand cuts. ‘What took place after that?’
What was he getting at? After what?
‘Did he say anything, or make any comments that you recall?’
Was he serious? Did he seriously think J was going to dob on his uncles, even if they were psycho idiots? You don’t do that; you just don’t do that.
‘Oh, look,’ J said, ‘I’ve been smoking a fair bit lately’— Norris didn’t look surprised—‘so my memory’s pretty fucked.’ That should shut him up.
Leckie looked at him a moment longer, as if he was trying to decide whether to believe him or just bash him for the hell of it, and then said, ‘Is there anything else you’d like to add in regard to these matters we’ve discussed here today?’
J didn’t know what was going on. It sounded like he was closing up.
‘No,’ J said, wondering if they were going to hit him now.
‘Okay. We’ll suspend the interview right there.’
J hadn’t seen that coming, not by a long shot. He asked if he could go, just to see what he’d say, but Leckie told him he’d have to wait, and that he and Norris would be back sometime soon. Sure. With the electric cattle prod, J thought, but they just left him sitting there with Harrop behind him, watching him. Not saying a word, just watching him.
Maybe they were trying to soften him up and they’d hammer him the next time.
He didn’t think he’d said anything bad, and Leckie hadn’t really got him in the corner the way you see on those TV crime shows, whacking away like some dentist pulling teeth. In fact, if anything, all J felt at the end of it was a sense of shame. Shame that he was part of a family that could have done something like this, and shame that he was protecting them.
He didn’t know what was going to happen now, but he knew something would.
NINE
The others had already been let go, which was quite a surprise given the to-do around their arrest. The afternoon papers were already out, with photographs of them being bundled up like legs of lamb on the front page, so why they’d let them go like that was anybody’s guess.
Pope had other fish to fry and was laying into Smurf in a nearby cafe. ‘Have you forgotten about Baz?’ he spat angrily at her. ‘Have you? Who’s been looking after you? Who’s been giving you money?’
Smurf knew that he was trying to justify what they’d done, but she wasn’t buying it, even as he blundered on.
‘Me and Baz have. That’s who. And what does Craig give you? He’s making a fortune. How much does he give you?’
‘Craig bought me my flat,’ Smurf answered firmly, waiting for the guilt and anger to pass so they could start talking sensibly.
‘Nuh, nuh,’ Pope said, shaking his head, wary of what she might do if he gave her the chance. ‘You don’t own it. He just lets you live there. But we actually give you things, so who do you think you owe something to?’
Smurf had had enough, and, leaning forwards, she spat in a low voice, ‘What is it you think you’ve done for Baz?’
Pope went to water straightaway and started squirming. She was worse than the cops, the way she could twist your nuts.
‘You think Baz gives two hoots for what you’ve done?’ Smurf fumed. She knew they’d done it; of course she knew. She didn’t even have to ask. There was nothing you could keep from her.
Darren had been drooping in the corner, trying to ignore the conversation, but looked up as the waitress brought the tea.
‘Thanks, love,’ Smurf said, as nice and polite as can be, like a good little old lady. ‘Can we have the bill, please?’
As the girl turned away, Smurf glared back at Pope. ‘He’s dead,’ she snapped, sounding like she was closing the chapter of a book. And then, all of a sudden, she turned—she could turn in an instant, a consummate performer—sweet as honey. ‘I know you care. But don’t you go thinking you care in a special way like nobody else does.’
She was the brains, and they were just the naughty boys waiting to get a smack.
‘Craig’s here,’ Darren said, leaping up to get away.
Softening, Smurf licked her thumb and wiped some food off Pope’s cheek. ‘Hey, maybe you should start taking your pills again,’ she said softly.
Pope looked away.
She didn’t have to take them. She didn’t have to wake up in a fog and tramp around in treacle all day. He didn’t need his pills. Fucking doctors. All they want to do is make your life shit.
Craig burst in looking like the banshees were after him and sat down opposite Smurf, followed by Darren. ‘What the fuck?’ he cried, desperate and bewildered. ‘Hey? How come they were there so quick?’
They might not have been able to work it out, but Smurf knew. Anyone with a brain knew. She spelled it out for them. ‘They know who Baz’s friends are.’
‘Fuck,’ Craig repeated, looking like he’d lost it or been on something all night, which he probably had.
‘Keep your voice down,’ Smurf said sharply.
Trying to calm him, Darren leaned across, saying, ‘Mate, if they knew something, we’d still be in there.’
‘What did you do?’ Smurf finally demanded, wanting to hear it straight from them, but Pope just looked away, so Smurf pushed it further. ‘You killed them, didn’t you?’
Darren whimpered at the memory.
‘You killed those two young constables.’
‘We never did nothing,’ Pope spat back.
‘I know what you did,’ Smurf answered and, turning her gaze on Darren, she snarled, ‘And you just went along with him, the way you always do, didn’t you?’
‘I didn’t mean to,’ Darren answered, looking at the table.
‘Shut up,’ Pope spat.
‘What about you?’ Smurf demanded of Craig. ‘I would have thought you’d have more sense.’
‘They killed Baz,’ Craig shot back.
‘Who?’ Smurf demanded, not wanting to let him get away with it. ‘Those two young coppers you’ve gone and murdered? Is that who? Who killed Baz?’
‘What’s it matter?’ Craig answered. ‘They’re all the same.’
‘They’re all the same,’ Smurf repeated in a mocking, vicious voice, not quite able to believe anyone could be that stupid, not even her sons.
They were all breathing hard, their hearts thumping. Pope had pushed them into something none of them properly understood yet.
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