by Tim Ayliffe
And where the hell was Ronnie?
‘We didn’t have a choice, you know.’
Bailey hadn’t noticed Harding settling himself on the sofa, elbows on his knees, leaning closer for a chat.
‘Everybody has a choice,’ Bailey replied. ‘You’re nothing but a coward.’
‘Coward?’ Harding shook his head, making that annoying tutting sound again. ‘You really don’t get it, do you?’
‘No. I get it,’ Bailey said, almost spitting his words. ‘You’re looking for someone to blame for your pathetic life.’
‘This isn’t about me. This is about my country. I’ve been watching it for decades. The crime. The cultural erosion. I know exactly who’s responsible,’ Harding said through gritted teeth. ‘Australia’s being destroyed from the inside. Taken over. This is about preservation. Protecting our way of life. We’re the ones brave enough to fight.’
‘You’re a terrorist, Harding. No better than an Islamic Nation suicide bomber who straps on a vest.’
‘A terrorist?’ Harding looked genuinely surprised. ‘We’re part of a global movement that’s getting more popular by the day. People like you in the mainstream media don’t get it. You don’t understand real people any more.’
‘Real people?’ Bailey cut in. ‘What does that even mean?’
‘It means you’re out of touch. The elite. The left. You’ve already lost. Can’t you see that? Turkey. Brazil. Austria. Hungary. The United States. The Philippines. The UK.’ Harding was proudly rattling off every nation that had been touched by the rising tide of populism. ‘This isn’t some flash in the pan, my friend. We’re building here in Australia too. It’s only a matter of time. The politics of yesterday is gone. Failed. We’ve expended enough blood and money on foreign wars, taking in refugees only to see them take up arms against us.’
‘You’re simplifying everything to suit your extremist cause. Make you feel good about being a racist murderer,’ Bailey said.
‘No. No. No.’ Harding was waving his finger at Bailey like he was a naughty child. ‘You think this is just about race. It’s not.’
‘Enlighten me,’ Bailey said, almost spitting the words from his mouth.
‘Big business is to blame almost as much as the left-wing political classes who first opened the door to immigrants. For big business, it’s about cheap labour. New migrants are coming here and doing the low-paying service jobs we need. But their children don’t. Their children’s children don’t. They use our education system, healthcare, to infiltrate our way of life. Attend our universities. They become bankers, media barons, and more and more we’re seeing them taking our positions in parliament, where they slowly seek to change our country. Erode our culture, our heritage. Replace us.’
‘And killing people’s the answer?’ Bailey said.
Harding tapped the arm of the sofa. ‘Today’s a wake-up call. Like Christchurch. Oslo. El Paso. It may take time, but we’re in this for the long game. There’ll be more days like today.’
‘And what about Augustus Strong?’ Bailey still didn’t understand why the American was among the dead. ‘All that crap you just rattled off, it’s the type of gibberish that made Strong the pin-up boy for extremists like you.’
‘All talk,’ Harding said, shaking his head. ‘Augustus Strong was all talk. He joined us here only a few days ago. Rattling on about his brand. His followers on social media. Only interested in himself. We couldn’t have pretenders like that in our cause.’
‘So you had him killed?’
‘Benny’s idea. It wasn’t part of the plan. But we shared too much. Strong couldn’t be trusted. And look at the headlines it gave us.’
Harding was laughing now. Deranged, eye-rolling laughter.
‘You’re nothing but a fucking psychopath.’
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Jolting upright, Harding stopped laughing, his neck spinning towards the door. He stood up, confused. Reaching inside his jacket, he pulled a pistol from the holster beside his chest.
He pointed his gun at Bailey. ‘Who’s out there?’
‘No idea.’
Knock. Knock.
‘Make a noise and you’re a dead man.’
Harding moved towards the door. Opening it.
‘Back!’
Ronnie.
Bailey knew that voice and he had never been so glad to hear it.
‘Back up!’
Harding was walking backwards, balancing his pistol mid-air, slowly stepping into the room, edging closer to Bailey.
Ronnie appeared in the doorframe, his arm flexed tightly around Russell’s neck while he held his Glock to the young man’s temple.
‘Stop there!’
Ronnie was ducking down, his head concealed by Russell’s helmet, protecting him from the bullets from the gun that Harding was pointing in his direction. With his arms tied behind his back and a full complement of body armour, Russell was the perfect human shield.
‘Where’s Benny?’ Harding said.
Russell couldn’t speak because he had gaffer tape wrapped tightly around his head, covering his mouth. Struggling to breathe. Each sniff of air sounding desperate and distorted as he tried to blast the mucus from his nose. It was a hell of a time to have a cold.
‘Benny won’t be joining us,’ Ronnie said.
In one quick movement, Russell rammed his elbow into Ronnie’s gut, distracting him long enough for Harding to slip behind Bailey, kneel down and hold a gun to his head.
‘Do that again and you’re a dead man,’ Ronnie said to Russell, flexing his arm more tightly around his neck. The young man’s face turned red as he struggled to breathe.
‘Who are you?’ Bailey felt Harding’s words on his neck while watching Ronnie’s eyes, trying to read his next move.
‘Nobody.’
The two men with guns were less than five metres apart. Point blank range.
‘All right, nobody. It seems we’re at somewhat of a stand-off here.’ Harding sounded alarmingly confident. ‘I tell you what’s going to happen. Bailey and I are going to walk outside. It’s the only way nobody gets hurt.’
‘Is it?’
With a knife in his hand, Harding reached forward, his face shielded behind Bailey’s back as he cut through the zip ties across Bailey’s wrists.
‘Get up,’ Harding said, his hand tapping Bailey on the shoulder. ‘Up!’
Bailey did as he was told, watching Ronnie, wondering what the big guy was waiting for.
‘I’m going to ask you to move out of the way so that we can get through that door.’
‘That’s not going to happen,’ Ronnie said. ‘Sorry, bubba.’
‘What?’
Ronnie dropped to one knee behind Russell and fired his gun.
Bang!
The bullet hit Bailey in his chest, forcing him to slump forward, exposing the top half of Harding’s torso.
Gunfire engulfed the room. Voices. Yelling. Windows smashing. Bodies hitting the ground.
Then silence.
Ears ringing. Vision blurred.
Bailey couldn’t breathe.
The bullet had blown the air out of his lungs and he felt a sharp pain in his chest. He had no idea how many rounds had been fired. Five. Six. Ten. He just knew that he’d been hit. He looked around, trying to count the bodies. How many were still standing. How many had hit the deck. Shadows were moving in the smoky air and the acrid smell of gunpowder was burning Bailey’s nostrils. He ran his hand across his chest, feeling for a wound. Moisture. Blood. Hoping that the bullet fired from Ronnie’s gun was stuck in the Kevlar vest and not buried beneath his skin.
‘Fuck!’ Bailey was rolling around on the ground, coughing and clutching his chest, trying to move Harding’s bloodied corpse from his legs. ‘You bloody shot me, Ronnie. You –’
Bailey stopped talking when he caught sight of Ronnie slumped against the wall, holding his arm, blood on his hand.
‘Ronnie.’ Bailey crawled towards him, coughing. ‘Mate,
you okay?’
‘Fucking arsehole got me. Hit me in the arm.’ Ronnie was already clambering to his feet, gritting his teeth to hide the pain.
‘Where’s Russell?’
There was a bloody patch on the floor where Russell had just been, and red splotches leading all the way to the screen door which was now flapping in the breeze.
‘He’s gone.’
CHAPTER 37
The hill was a sea of black houses with yellow windows. The residents of Bronte abruptly woken by gunfire. One loud bang could have been ignored, reasoned away as a backfiring car, or thunder. The gunshots that had shaken the tiny house in the scrub had been enough to wake the entire neighbourhood, forcing panicked residents to their phones. To alert the police because guns didn’t get fired around here. Ever.
Bailey knew the average response time to an emergency call was twelve minutes. If they got lucky it could be half that. Bailey wasn’t banking on it. Not on Australia Day, when cops in uniform would be stretched from one place to another. Events. Parties. Protests.
They were on their own.
‘Stay behind me. Stay close.’
Bailey was chasing Ronnie up the steps, trying not to worry about the arm that was dangling by Ronnie’s side, dripping blood on stone.
‘Can you see him?’ Bailey whispered.
The sun had appeared between the ocean and the clouds and there was just enough light to see the other trail of blood. Russell’s blood. Leading to the driveway.
‘No,’ Ronnie said, panting and waving his gun. ‘Stay low. Head down.’
Bailey had a gun too. Harding’s. Prised from his dead hand. The warm metal foreign to Bailey’s fingers, his palm. He didn’t like holding it. Ronnie hadn’t given him a choice. After seeing Russell dressed like Rambo, Bailey hadn’t bothered arguing.
‘This way.’
They followed the splotches of blood along the driveway towards the van, which was puffing exhaust smoke, engine humming, its deflated tyres collapsed on the concrete. Benny Hunter’s body lying lifeless nearby. Ronnie’s handiwork, no doubt.
‘It’s over, Russell!’ Ronnie yelled. ‘Van’s no good!’
They stopped moving, leaning up against the van. Listening.
‘You need help, Russell.’ Ronnie lowered his voice. ‘We need to get you to a hospital. You’ve lost a lot of blood.’
Nothing.
No movement. No sound.
If Russell was somewhere nearby, he was staying out of sight.
‘Let us help you, mate,’ Bailey added. ‘Think about your mum and dad. Your sister, Melissa. Harding was just using you. It can all end now. Before it gets out of hand.’
Tapping Ronnie on the shoulder, Bailey pointed to the other side of the van where he thought he’d heard something. Ronnie raised his gun, gesturing for Bailey to do the same.
Bailey’s boots crunched loudly on the sandy concrete. Arriving at the rear of the van, he poked his head down the side, glimpsing Russell sitting on the wall by the driver’s door. Bailey slid his finger across the trigger of the gun, preparing to do something he had never been trained to do.
‘Russell?’ Bailey tried to sound calm. Reassuring. Neighbourly. ‘This can end right now. Let’s get you to a hospital.’
Russell was holding his rifle with both hands and he stood up, head twisting towards Bailey.
‘Drop it!’ Ronnie’s voice boomed and Bailey could see the top of his head hovering over the roof. ‘Last warning, Russell! Drop the gun!’
The next rounds of gunfire were so quick and loud that they sounded like an earthquake. Flashes of rapid fire erupting from Russell’s automatic weapon. Bailey only managed to squeeze the trigger once and he had no idea where the bullet went as he dived for cover. He was on his knees, crawling up against the van’s back wheel, expecting to see Ronnie crouching nearby. But he was gone.
‘Mr Bailey!’
Russell’s voice.
‘Drop your weapon! I don’t want to kill you too.’
Russell was moving around the van towards him, one foot dragging on the ground. Clearly injured. Just not enough.
‘Last chance, Mr Bailey,’ Russell said. Closer.
Bailey stood up, leaning against the van, peering around the side. Pointing his gun.
Band! Bang! Bang!
The sound of the bullets burrowing into metal panels made Bailey realise that his pistol was no match for the killing machine in Russell’s hands. A semi-automatic assault rifle shipped from America and carried by soldiers in warzones.
‘The gun! Throw it where I can see!’
Bailey tossed his gun onto the ground and seconds later Russell was beside him, pointing his rifle at his face.
‘Where’s your car?’
‘Where’s Ronnie?’
‘Dead.’
‘What?’
‘We’re leaving.’ Russell pushed the hot muzzle into Bailey’s cheek, sizzling the sweat on his skin. ‘Your car, take me to it. Unless you’d prefer to die. I’ll count to three. One. Two –’
‘Okay. Okay.’ Bailey pushed the muzzle away. ‘It’s around the corner.’
‘Walk.’
The injury didn’t appear to be slowing Russell down and he kept pushing the rifle into Bailey’s back, ordering him to quicken his stride.
Reaching the top of the driveway, Bailey stopped and looked back towards the van. The house. The steep, bushy embankment. Searching for any sign that Ronnie was alive. He imagined the big man diving away from the hail of bullets, just like Bailey had done. If Ronnie was dead then surely his body would have been lying on the drive?
‘Which is it?’
Another shove in the back.
‘The wagon.’ Bailey pointed at the old yellow bomb that had brought him here. ‘There.’
After forcing Bailey into the driver’s seat, Russell climbed into the back, pushing his gun into Bailey’s rib cage. ‘Drive.’
‘Where are we going?’
Bailey turned the key, twisting his rear-vision mirror so that he could see his passenger. The helmet. The military fatigues. The rifle on his lap. Eyes raging with adrenalin.
‘Bondi Beach.’
Russell was sitting in the middle of the row, ducking down, maintaining a clear view out the front windscreen. A clear shot at his driver.
Shoving it in gear, Bailey turned the car into the street, performing a U-turn under instruction, steering through the winding hills that hovered above Bronte. Within minutes they were turning onto Bondi Road, edging closer to the country’s most famous beach. A place where people flocked – rain, hail or shine.
‘Why are you doing this, Russell? You’re ruining your life.’
Bailey tried again to get his passenger talking. Find a connection. Anything to get the young man to rethink what he was about to do.
‘Harding’s dead, you know that?’ Bailey said, trying to catch his eyes in the mirror. ‘Let’s end this. You’re not a bad guy. There’s time to turn this around.’
‘Shut the fuck up!’ Russell snarled. ‘People like you. The media. You’re part of the problem. I’m glad you’re here for the ride. You can learn something. What it means to really believe in something. Do whatever it takes. I’m giving you the story of a lifetime.’
Large droplets of water started splattering on the windscreen, just enough for Bailey to turn on the wipers.
He noticed the footpaths getting busier the closer they got to the beach. People carrying surfboards. Walking dogs. Jogging. Families striding together in raincoats. Bailey imagined Russell running at them with his gun, firing with purpose, trying to kill as many innocent people as he could, just as those other white supremacist lunatics had done before.
Bailey was running out of options. If he couldn’t talk Russell back off the ledge, what else could he do?
He took his foot off the accelerator as they approached the sweeping bend that would deliver them to the southern end of the beach, where Bailey could see several large, white marquees in the c
arpark down by the esplanade. It wasn’t even 7.30 am and there were already hundreds of people down there, huddled around barbecues and a stage where dignitaries would give speeches and musicians play songs.
‘Don’t slow down. What are you doing?’ Russell said. ‘Turn right at the roundabout. Drop me in the carpark.’
‘I’m not going to let you do this.’
Bailey felt the gun push against his head and Russell sat up, not caring about being seen.
‘Yes, you are.’
A four-wheel drive appeared alongside and Bailey glimpsed the face of the driver, her mouth agape at the sight inside Bailey’s car. Children in the back seat. A man leaning across the woman’s lap, phone to his ear. Probably calling the police just like Bailey imagined half of Bronte had done. Still no sirens. Where the fuck were the police?
Russell’s eyes left Bailey as he fiddled with the camera on his helmet, activating the live stream. Sensing an opportunity, Bailey slipped on his seatbelt and dropped his foot onto the accelerator, the back wheels slipping as he skated around the bend.
‘What are you doing?’ Russell said, panic rising. ‘Bailey? Bailey!’
With his foot to the floor, Bailey was beeping his horn and flashing his lights as he sped down the hill, not slowing as he entered the roundabout on Campbell Parade, side-swiping another car, bouncing onto the opposite side of the road.
‘Stop!’
Bailey had found his target. A light post on the corner of the roundabout. He hit it head-on at seventy kilometres an hour, Russell flying through the front windscreen, his rifle leading the charge through the glass, Bailey’s head smashing against the steering wheel, seatbelt slicing into his neck.
The blaring sound of a car horn brought Bailey around and he lifted his head off the steering wheel, killing the horn, staring through the shattered windscreen, searching for Russell in the smoke that was billowing from the crumpled engine. Blood was rushing from Bailey’s nose, running down his forehead into his eyes, making it difficult to see. His neck ached and as he went to open the door his right arm didn’t respond. The joint of his shoulder wasn’t right. Numbing pain that he remembered after a spiteful tackle on the rugby field.