A Tropical Cure

by John Hollenkamp

  After an hour of driving on the Bruce Highway he passed the Rollingstone pub, he went for another kilometre, decided to turn around. It was tempting to call into the pub, sink a dozen ales, couple of bourbon chasers. Now, that would take his mind away from the demons.

  Traffic was moderate, going both ways. Only one more – he tapped his fingers on the wheel. Looked like a road-train. While waiting for the bright lights in the distance to come closer, an image of Carlos flashed in his eyes.

  His close friend, Carlos, the manager of the Boxing Club in Manly, at times, Darren’s mentor in all things pertaining to ‘struggle’. The struggle with your fighting technique, struggle with your psyche in the ring.

  The struggle of life, after death.

  Carlos’ take on moving on was putting it behind: put all those memories in a box – good ones in a small box and bad ones in a big one. The small box is easy to carry with you, always – bury the big box, it’s too heavy.

  That was it. I need to lose the baggage.

  The road train thundered past. The rear-view mirror was black but the road ahead was lit. Darren flicked the lever to high-beam, and gunned the taxi onto the highway. He would find his way home.

  CHAPTER 31

  THE SHOE THAT FITS…

  Something was missing. Wilder settled back, folded his arms behind his head and peered up at the ceiling. The fan was spinning at Blackhawk speed.

  Joel felt the wind from the fan tickling the hair on his head. From the corner of his eye he could see Fiona blowing a bit of hair out of her face. Standing in front of Wilder’s desk waiting for some sort of signal, instruction or dismissive wave to come, was starting to wear thin in the oppressive humidity of his office, despite the fan. Joel shifted and couldn’t bear it any longer. “What if we went back to the area where the taxi was found, and had another good look around.”

  “To what purpose?” Wilder asked.

  “See if we can find a trail. Something that links the burnt-out taxi and the foot,” Joel replied.

  “That’s a hell of a stretch between the taxi and the backwaters of Stony Creek.”

  “I meant something on land, some physical evidence, that’s been overlooked”

  “Yes. The foot. That’s still speculative.” Wilder rubbed his unshaven chin.

  Fiona rolled her eyes, she cleared her throat, “Whatever you two decide to do, we do have a shift to get on with. In case, you haven’t looked in the mirror, Shallowater, you are still in uniform. And with all due respect, mister Wilder, you better issue a formal request with the Duty-Sergeant, because otherwise the wheels will be falling off this carriage pretty quick.”

  Fiona aimed an angry look at Wilder.

  In turn, he leant forward placing his elbows on the desk, interlocking his fingers while death-staring Gibbs. “Even for this retched town, the body count for murder has been too high, it might get higher yet if we don’t find out who’s behind the killings. The paperwork will be sorted. You.” Pointing a stiff finger at Joel, “Comb the area around the taxi site. Find anything that doesn’t belong there!”

  Fixing his fury back on Gibbs, “As for you, if you don’t like how things are run at the moment then I suggest you take it up with the badge polishers. Now get the fuck out of my office.”

  There it was.

  Showdown of the sergeants.

  Joel rolled his eyes and followed Gibbs who was stomping down the corridor. Keeping up with her wasn’t too hard as far as strides went, but that temper was leaving a trail of steam too hot to touch.

  “Slowdown for a sec,” Joel urged as he caught up with her.

  “Maybe you should,” she shot back.

  “What slow down? So we cut the killer some slack?”

  “No. Let the detectives do their job. You do yours.” Her pace was unrelenting.

  “I thought we were all on the same team. Find and catch crooks.”

  “Well someone has to issue speeding tickets, and it’s not the Dick Wilders of this department’s job. It’s ours.”

  ***

  They were out on general duties patrol.

  The palms and the green grass which lined The Strand were a stark contrast to the barren, dry and brown areas which were recurrent from the frequent and long periods of no rain in this part of North Queensland. But Townsville had experienced a reprieve from the long, dry spells. Two weeks of random monsoonal downpours.

  The Strand was green no matter what time of year, or prevailing weather conditions.

  “They must throw a shitload of money at this place to keep it so green,” Joel remarked. First day in weeks, Fiona had taken over the driving of the patrol car. Although bored with being a passenger, at least he could take in the view.

  “Been to Maggie much?” he asked.

  “Few times. Not a lot to do there. There’s a great pub in Horseshoe Bay.”

  “Been to Palm Island?”

  “Haven’t had the privilege.” Getting a little tired of the mundane questions, she raised, “You think this Eddie character has something to do with the taxi-driver’s disappearance?”

  “Strange question for someone who is looking for speeding motorists. But I’ll humour you,” Joel replied. “No idea. But what is interesting, is that this Edward gorilla turns up at the bikie clubhouse goes on a rampage, and then our cab-driver, Darren, appears miraculously, wanting to know what happened. That’s not a coincidence – it’s a connection. That connection is worth following up.”

  Fiona had ignored Wilder’s orders to return to the taxi site, Wilder was not her superior. In contrast, Joel had to abide by her direction, because Fiona Gibbs was his immediate superior. It meant he would have to go back to the site after his shift was over to ‘comb’ the area.

  “Anything else you care to share with me? Seems to me you’ve been busy in the shadows. I know you’ve been in cahoots with old Dicky for a while. I’ve been in the department a lot longer than you. The walls have ears. Sneaking behind my …”

  Joel interrupted her, “Stop. Look over there.” Joel shot his arm out to point. Before she could finish her sentence, Joel jumped out of the slow-moving patrol car, slammed the door shut and hot-paced it to conceal himself behind a carpark wall. Fiona frantically scanned the direction where he pointed before dashing out of the car. Her eyes darted across the road. Nothing. And then further down the footpath she spotted two Aboriginal boys running, fleeing from something. Unaware, running towards a tall policeman hiding behind a brick wall with his finger taut to his mouth as he gazed back at Fiona.

  Timing. It was all about timing. And hearing.

  Joel stepped out from the wall confronting the advancing boys with arms open wide. The smaller boy panicked at the sight of the hulking copper, losing his stride as he looked for an escape. Careless and panicked, he tripped, fell forward and the wallet in his hand catapulted to the pavement. The other boy darted across the road and disappeared into the throng of tourists. Joel attended to the kid on the ground who was cradling his bleeding knee. There was no doubt in his mind he would catch up with the other kid down the track. Joel stepped over and grabbed the open wallet from the sidewalk.

  “Here’s your wallet. Oliver James Kennington. Hmm …date of birth, 1960. Gee, Ollie, hope I look like you when I’m fifty.” Joel looked down at the boy, whose eyes flitted from side to side avoiding Joel’s stare. “Gonna tell me your name?”

  The boy didn’t answer.

  Joel crouched down, levelling himself with the young thief. He put his large hand over the young boy’s hand and lifted it from the bleeding knee. “We better get that looked at. Come on fella, wouldn’t want you to bleed out.”

  Finally, eye-contact.

  “What’s your name?”

  Hesitant, the young boy volunteered his name, “Billy.”

  “Where are you from Billy? May as well tell me. Otherwise, I may not be able to drive you home. And you know what happens then? I’ll have to keep in you in the lock-up.”

  The look of horror
was priceless.

  “Dover Plains.” Head down kicking a palm seed. “I was from Palmy before.”

  “Think I know your auntie,” Joel said.

  In the background, he heard a loud voice trying to overpower the noise of the street. Joel saw Fiona admonishing an obese man flapping his arms around and bellowing racial slurs. Fiona wasn’t the placating type.

  “Don’t run away, right?” Joel instructed Billy.

  The closer Joel came to Fiona, the louder the fat man swore, ‘fucking this, fucking that’, so he shoved the wallet in the fat man’s face, “Go away, before I’ll have you up on charges of racial vilification and profane language.”

  Oliver Kennington retreated in submission when he realised that the other police officer towered over him, the threat of a fine, or worse, motivating him to scuttle along quickly.

  “What an absolute arsehole,” Fiona muttered watching the fat man waddle off.

  “Yeah, funny how the shoe fits.”

  CHAPTER 32

  SLOW ROAD

  Darren woke at sparrow’s, groggy with an aching back. He rolled over and retrieved his mobile from the side-table. Bit after six. Too early, he decided. He threw the sheet off him, but stayed laying on his back, hands folded under his head.

  Patch. I need to bring him home. Darren got up.

  Showered and refreshed, Darren rummaged in the fridge looking for breakfast items. No eggs, no bacon. Great.

  Doorknock.

  Who is this? It’s bloody seven. Irritated, but curious he went to the door. The silhouette showed a tall visitor. The cop!

  “Up early,” Darren blurted as he opened the door.

  “Call of duty. Or duty calls.”

  “You know, even Ernie Dingo is funnier than you,” Darren remarked.

  “Yeah, but I’m better looking.”

  Darren stepped back signalling an invite for the uniformed man to enter. No doubt in Darren’s mind that it would have something to do with his presence at the bikie joint. Still it wasn’t anything to fret over, after all, put yourself in the middle of a shoot-out and you will be caught in the cross-fire. Curiosity did kill the cat!

  “Anyway, what do you want with me?” Darren asked impatiently.

  “Where did you drop your fare yesterday?”

  “Which one, mate? I had about twenty.”

  “Ah, very funny,” Joel countered. “Next question. Why is it that I don’t think it was coincidence that you were, let’s say, ‘Johnny-on-the-spot?”

  Darren stared at the inquisitive copper asking himself what the angle was. How would they know about any connection between Eddie and himself?

  “Stuck for words?”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Darren shot back.

  “Tell me. How long have you been in Townsville? Your records from the bank indicate that your account is a recent one. Four months. And you were eligible for a home loan. Aside from the fact that one hundred and sixty thousand dollars appeared out of nowhere.”

  Darren said nothing. I suppose that was bound to come out.

  Keeping secrets once you had a bank account or driving license diminished at a great rate of knots, Darren concluded a long time ago. It was one of those things that made life on the wire challenging. Covering dodgy tracks was tricky. After the escapades with Johnno, his associations in the shade of illicit activities had all but disappeared. Now he realised that running marijuana from the land to the city was petty crime compared to being part of an elaborate fraud scheme, dreamed up by a mate who paid dearly for that mistake. Working class crime versus three-piece suit crime.

  “With a bit more digging I’ll find out anyway,” Joel said impatiently.

  “Suppose you will,” Darren replied.

  “By the way, where’s your dog?”

  That one got him square in the face. It put him off balance. He had to recover from this quickly. Tick bite. Eureka!

  “Bitten by a tick.”

  “Must have been a fucking big tick,” Joel stated unsmiling.

  “Why’s that?”

  “There’s a shitload of dried up blood splashed on your ute, the concrete. Need I go on?”

  Darren felt his face whitening. His mother used to rouse on him when she caught him out, “Stop lying to me, I can tell when your face goes pale.” Now he was getting close to the cross-fire.

  “I have a shift to start,” Darren stated and held the door wide.

  The police officer took it as his queue to leave, “Here’s my number.” And handed Darren a bit of paper as he walked through.

  He waited for Joel to drive off before leaving to start his own day. By the time he finished eating breakfast it was close to 9 am, and decided he’d ring the veterinary nurse, Ruby. Although he’d kept himself abreast with Patch’s slow recovery, he hadn’t been back to visit the surgery for two days. Darren had spoken to several nurses over the last couple of days using the surgery number rather than the mobile number Ruby had given him. Her personal contact number, he had found it daunting to ring her.

  Today, he resolved to get over that.

  “G’day, is this Ruby?” His reply to her ‘hello’.

  “Yes, it is. Whom am I speaking to please?” Ruby enquired.

  “It’s Darren. Just ringing about Patch. To see how he’s going.” His answer stumbled. She doesn’t remember my voice.

  “I don’t know how he is this morning, but last night his condition was improved,” she replied. “My shift starts at three this afternoon. Have you the surgery number?”

  “Yes. I do. I’ll give them a ring. Thanks.” Darren ended the call. His pulse was elevated. Was that a bit random? Should he have just contacted the surgery direct? But why did she give him her mobile the other day? Fucked if I know.

  ***

  Rather than another phone call for an update he chose to head over to the surgery and see for himself how his mate was getting on. His head space was clearer today than it had been for weeks. Cate used to say to him: create a list, prioritise, action it and tick things off. Her efficiency even translated into the grinding grocery shopping that used to drive him nuts. Apart from getting basics like milk and coffee, you picked the other supplies according to what you felt like on the day. Guess that’s why there was no bacon or eggs in the fridge this morning.

  He wiped his boots on the stiff bristle mat and went through the door of the vet clinic. The waiting area was full and standing room only. Darren went straight to the reception counter which was manned by a young girl he hadn’t seen before. He tried not to breathe too heavily, the odour mix of sterilisers and animals was strong this morning. He was relieved Helen, the vet, had come through the door, she beckoned him to follow her.

  Patch was resting against the back of the enclosure, his head up looking alert. His eyes lit up as soon as Darren appeared. “Hello, mate.” Standing back while Helen unlatched the door to the cage, he was overwhelmed with relief to see Patch alive and breathing.

  “He’s lucky to be alive. I must tell you, however, that his recovery will take some time. The puncture wounds to his lungs need healing time. I dare say any form of vigorous exercise will be a while yet, perhaps a month or more.”

  The news didn’t come as a complete surprise, nevertheless, Darren was disappointed, not for himself, but for his buddy – Patch would be hanging for a run! And once at home, the cattle-dog instinct to chase and run down anything that moved would be a difficult urge to stop.

  “When can he come home?” Darren asked.

  “A few days. Let’s allow him an opportunity to recuperate. Better here than at your home. Do you agree?”

  “Suppose he’ll need to be kept on ice at home.”

  “On ice?” Helen questioned.

  “Sorry. Calm. No running for a while.”

  Keyword. Running.

  Patch cocked his head, ears peaking.

  “Crikey, best not use that word. That’s his cue.”

  “Absolutely, none of that, but a walk
is fine. But not for another week, at least.” Smiling as she shut the recovery cage door.

  Patch slapped his tail against the padded bedding and whimpered, lowering his head with a pronounced dog sigh.

  “Soon buddy.” Darren turned his back and followed the vet out.

  CHAPTER 33

  LOST AND FOUND

  The once shiny metallic paint on the car had long been weathered by the North Queensland sun. Looking over the dulled and blistered bonnet of the Civic while driving into the narrow track ahead, his backside feeling every stone and pothole, reminded Joel of another time not so long ago that even he could have been part of that drunken excursion out in the sticks, had it not been for his uncle. Instead he was here, after work, still on the job with a head full of melancholy.

  It was a shame that no one cared enough about the four boys to help them make better decisions – might have saved a young person from suicide, and a death by drunken misadventure. But when he looked around him, most people just shrugged, and the Indigenous community would stare glassy-eyed without a word. It was a done deal, no one had the answers to your questions, especially the ones in your own mind.

  Another pothole … Shit … the car clunked hard, jarring his body.

  Definitely need some new wheels.

  The clearing came into view. The metal skeleton of the taxi was no longer there, the burn marks were visible. Scorched earth. That evidence would take a few more weeks to disappear. Joel brought the car to a stop about ten metres from the spot where the taxi had been. The Civic’s engine was ticking loud at idle. Low on oil. He reminded himself.

  Joel peered at the site from behind the wheel. The Aboriginal Legal Aid Counsel had been protective of their charge: the twelve-year-old boy and his sixteen-year-old male companion were minors and were first-time offenders, never mind that they were present and complicit at the time of their friend’s fatal accident. Getting detailed information about what exactly happened on the day was marred by recollections tainted with stupid lies and blurs from alcohol abuse.