by Peter Corris
The energy and excitement they generated and consumed threatened to spill over and seek some other outlet. It was distinctly uncomfortable being the only other outlet around. The drug was giving me the horrors, first of sight, now of sound. I couldn’t stand the screaming and grunts. I crooned to myself dopily, and for a time everything became calm and quiet. I felt nothing; I was asleep somewhere soft and white.
Then I was awake again, and feeling pain everywhere. I had the power of movement back, although my vision was distorted and blurry. I struggled to get some give in the ropes, but there was none. I looked wildly around the room as their grunts and groans increased in tempo and loudness: the door was twenty feet off and shut tight; there was a whip on the floor a few feet away but, with me trussed up like that, it was about as useful as a Mars Bar.
Then I doubted that I was conscious, because I could see Mountain and Kelly in triplicate up on the bed. Six people on one bed. The Mountains were teasing the Kellys, moving up and down, advancing and withdrawing. The Kellys hammered with their free fists. The Mountains ignored the blows. They tensed and drove down. The Kellys screamed and flexed so hard the Mountains had to pin them with their whole bodies. Three free arms flopped over the side of the bed, and I could see the hands clenching and unclenching.
The images faded and I heard only sound, distantly, as if it was coming from another room-Kelly screamed and Mountain began to roar to blot out the sound. ‘Finished,’ he bellowed. ‘Finished! Finished!’ Then he yelled the word in French, and ranted away in what sounded like German, but could have been Russian or Polish for all I knew. His pounding rocked the bed and seemed to shake the floor. The room filled with the screams and roars and bumps. My vision came back, and in single image, but the action seemed suddenly to go into slow motion. I saw Kelly bend her arm and move it back to claw at the end of the mattress. She pulled out a knife with a long, broad blade and her knuckles cracked under the strain as she manipulated it in her palm. She got it right and jerked the arm and drove it down hard into Mountain’s back; he bucked and the knife came free and she drove it down again. The muscles in Kelly’s arm bunched and danced as she tugged the knife free and dug it in at a different angle and in a different place. Mountain arched up and yelled something that died in his throat. He flopped down on top of the woman and she dug and slashed at him. The blood spurted and flowed out of him; it puddled on the bed and dripped down onto the floor and flowed thickly across towards me.
Kelly sobbed and moaned and tried to get free of the corpse. She kicked and thrashed and it rolled clear of her. Her breath was coming in harsh gusts from her mouth and sibilant whistles from her nose. She hacked at the wrist rope, holding the knife the wrong way; the rope came free, but she cut herself in the process. Then she slashed through the ankle ropes, and cut herself some more. When she got to her knees on the bed, she was a nightmarish figure, streaked and smeared with blood from her head to her pubic hair. Her eyes stared wildly around the room. She pushed Mountain’s body off the bed, and it fell with a thump.
I was struggling like a madman, almost dislocating my shoulders in the effort to get my hands under my feet and up in front me. Fear of the knife drove me; my only idea was to have some protection from it, even my tied hands. I got my hands clear; it felt as if I had crushed some vertebrae to do it and I’d certainly skinned my wrists up to the forearms. I pressed back and levered myself up to an almost standing position against the wall. She saw me and screamed. Maybe I screamed too. She launched herself from the bed, and came at me with the knife raised above her head. Her mouth was wide open, and her tongue protruded like a black snake.
She stumbled, re-gained balance and came on with the knife descending. I yelled this time for sure and pushed off the wall like a swimmer on the last turn; I lowered my head, went in under the knife, and butted her in the stomach driving as much of my weight into it as my trembling, cramped legs would permit. She staggered back and dropped the knife. I went to my knees but struggled up again. She was sagging, coming forward and I butted her again, and her own falling weight helped drive the wind and limb control out of her. She crumpled down to the carpet and lay still.
I scrambled across the floor, grabbed the knife and wriggled to the nearest corner like a hunted beast. I crouched there and panted, looking at the fallen woman and still feeling defenceless despite the knife. I gripped the handle with my feet and sawed through the wrist ropes, then I cut my feet free with a hacking chop that seared into my left ankle. Dee Kelly started to moan and move. I swapped the knife into my right hand; my vision was red-filmed with fear and pain and horror. She got to her knees and lumbered towards me as I pulled myself up. The blood-caked hair stood up on her head and her eyes bulged. I threw the knife away and did what Dempsey did to Firpo when he had him on his knees: I swivelled and put everything into a short left that landed flush on her blood-daubed jaw. Her head flicked back and she flopped to the floor and lay still.
26
When my heart rate had slowed to a hundred and my eyes were back in their sockets, I dragged myself over to look at Bill Mountain. His eyes were staring open and his jaw was locked in a dropping, askew position. In death, he looked depressed.
I rolled Deirdre Kelly’s eyelids back and everything appeared to be normal under them. Her pulse was strong and her tongue was free in her mouth. A concussion at most. Her outstretched foot touched the whipping post, and I tied her ankle to it with a piece of bloodstained rope just to be sure.
Opening the door and walking out of that room was like hiking down a country trail on a mild Spring day. The passageway smelled of tobacco and marijuana smoke but there was no blood underfoot or on the walls. The party was long over and the apartment was a shambles, except for the bar, which had been tidied and cleaned. All the bottles and glasses had been washed, corked and stacked away. I wandered into the bathroom and found my clothes there, bundled up. I climbed into the space capsule shower and ran the water to scalding hot; I lathered and rinsed until all the blood was off me and I was clean and pink. The cuts on my wrists weren’t bleeding but the one on my ankle was. I wadded up a paper napkin and put it over the cut under my sock.
It was way past the time I was supposed to call Grey, but I wasn’t worried about it. I felt sure the trusty answering machine would be on the job and I had things to do first. I dressed and went to the bar for some whisky. I didn’t notice the brand, but the scotch was the best I’d ever tasted. I had a short jolt, and then poured a long one and added some ice. I carried the drink with me, setting it down carefully and not marking surfaces as I searched the apartment. In the kitchen I found my gun; it was loaded and untampered with. I couldn’t find the cassettes or Mountain’s manuscript anywhere, and that left only one place to look.
As soon as I entered the black room I knew that something else had happened; there was a feeling of finality in the room such as a stage has at the end of a play when all the actors are out there taking their bows. Mountain lay exactly as I’d last seen him, but Kelly had stretched herself out at full length, leg, body and arm, and had reached the knife. Then she had rolled over onto her back; she probably hadn’t even bothered to sit up. The knife lay by her outstetched hand and her throat was cut to the spinal cord.
I was glad I’d put on my shoes because the carpet was a sticky mess over most of its surface. I picked my way across the driest patches, and searched the bed. There was a concealed panel in the headboard, behind the fastenings for the ropes and chains. I worked on it with my pocket knife, and eventually splintered and prised it open. Inside was a big manila envelope containing a couple of hundred pages of typescript; a smaller package held two sound tapes and one video cassette.
I took the envelope and package back to the kitchen and sat down by the telephone. Then I remembered my drink which I’d left outside the black room. I fetched it, came back, and dialled the contact number. I got the recorded message and I told the machine that I had Mountain, and read off Deirdre Kelly’s telephone number.
Grey-and I was sure that it was Grey this time-called back immediately.
‘Where are you?’ he said.
‘First things first. Let me talk to the girl.’
After a long pause Erica’s voice came over the wire. ‘I was asleep,’ she said.
‘Lucky you. Are you all right?’
‘Yes. What’s going on? Have you found him?’
‘Just do as you’re told for a little while, and everything’ll be all right. Put Grey back on, I’ll see you soon.’
Grey came back on, and asked me where I was again. I finished my drink and laughed into the mouthpiece. ‘Shut up and listen. You take the girl to this address.’ I gave him Frank and Hilde’s address in Harbord. ‘You drop her there and go-drive away. You call me from the nearest phone you can find. If I’ve had a call from where you leave her and they tell me she’s okay, I’ll tell you where Mountain is.’
‘Not good enough, Hardy. You’re asking me to throw in my hand, and you might have nothing to show.’
‘This has gone beyond tricks and games, Grey. Did you know Mountain had taken the Audi back? No? Well, he did. I’ve got plenty to show, don’t worry. For example I’ve got a couple of tapes and a video cassette. You think I’d play funny buggers at this stage? I’m sick of this whole fucking business.’
‘Mountain’s there?’
‘In person.’
‘Subdued, I take it?’
‘I’m almost past caring, Grey, take it or leave it.’
Something in my voice must have carried conviction. Grey agreed to my terms, and I cut him off and rang Frank Parker. Frank sounded sleepy and happy, the way a man might who was in the right bed with the right woman.
‘Listen, Frank, I haven’t got much time. Pretty soon a car’ll pull up outside your joint, and a young woman’ll knock at your door. She’s Chinese, her name’s Erica Fong. As soon as she’s through the door ring this number. Got it?’
‘Who’s Chinese? What’s going on?’
‘No time. Have you got the bloody number?’ I repeated it, and he sounded awake and unhappy, but he said he’d do it. I put the phone down and resisted the impulse to pour another drink. The adrenalin had started to run, and I was feeling pumped up and full of energy, which made the waiting I had to do hard. I checked the gun again and looked at the scotch bottle, again. I looked at it for quite a while, then the phone rang and I grabbed it.
‘She’s here, Cliff. She’s okay. She wants to know about someone called Mountain. What…?’
‘Thanks, Frank. Get off the line!’ I slammed the phone down and hovered my hand over it like someone playing Snap. But I let it ring a couple of times before I picked it up; when I answered my mouth was suddenly dry, and I could hardly form the words.
‘She’s delivered,’ Grey said.
‘Right. Here’s the address.’ I gave him the street and number. ‘It’s a block of flash flats. Park in the street and don’t make a fuss.’ He repeated the address and rang off quickly. I opened the front door and turned off the lights in the apartment except those in the hallway and the black room. The switches had dimmers and I dropped the hall down to a deep gloom and waited just inside the room opposite the black room. I had the tapes in my pocket and my S amp;W. 38 in my hand.
When they came, it was the old reliable threesome of Grey, Peroni and Flabby. I heard a whispering out by the door and then soft footfalls on the hall carpet. They stood outside the black room; Peroni unshipped his gun and led the way in. Grey and Flabby followed and I heard them swear and bump into each other as they took in the sights. I went through the door with the gun ready and my heart rate up over the one hundred again.
‘Surprise,’ I said.
Peroni was the fastest, but not very fast; he turned around with his gun up at roughly the right elevation, but he saw that I had my gun pointing at his teeth before he could complete his move.
‘Put the gun down, Peroni or you’ll be just like them.’
He dropped the gun and it fell with a soggy plop to the blood-soaked floor. Flabby hardly noticed, he was too busy vomiting over by the whipping post.
‘That helps,’ I said. ‘How d’you like it, Mr Grey?’
Grey’s face was rigid with shock; he’d thrown his hands up to his face when he’d seen them, and the hands came down slowly now to hang uselessly at his sides.
‘Did you…? Did…?’
‘Uh huh. They did it all by themselves, just having a little harmless fun.’
‘Jesus,’ Peroni said. Flabby hung on the post and spat on the floor. Grey was struggling to recover his executive manner and finding it hard going. His adam’s apple wobbled in his neck and he’d lost his old-young look. Now he just looked old. He controlled the movement in his neck by raising his hand and holding his throat.
‘What do you want?’ he said.
I reached into my pocket and took out the tapes. ‘It’s a question of what you want. Everything you asked for is here. There’s Mountain and here’s the tapes.’ I tossed the tapes onto the bed; they hit with a splashy sound. ‘Mountain’s not going to be doing any talking and as far as I know he hasn’t told anyone your secrets.’
‘Secrets,’ Grey said.
‘Yeah. Now I’ve worked out a little bit about it-you’ve got bent cops and others to protect. I know that, and I couldn’t care less.’
Grey gestured to Flabby to pick up the tapes, but Flabby shook his head. Grey walked over to the bed and picked them up. He was getting his nerve back fast. He looked down at Mountain whose face was in profile against the black carpet. He nodded slowly. Peroni shuffled his feet; his persecuted eyes were fixed on the body of Deirdre Kelly. He was excited by it.
‘I think you should take Carl home,’ I said. ‘It ends here, Grey.’
Grey looked at me steadily. I could feel my control going; my face was cold although the air in the room was warm and I was ready to start shaking inside. I didn’t have much talk or authority left in me.
‘The video,’ Grey said.
‘I’ve got it. You keep your bloody operation out of Sydney for six months and I’ll mail it to you.’
‘Mail?’
I had to hurry; I could feel myself unravelling. ‘Right. Australia Post. I’ll send it to Mr John Grey, General Delivery, Perth GPO. Okay?’
‘Why Perth?’
‘Perth’ll do. You’ll manage.’
‘Yes,’ Grey said. He took out a handkerchief and wiped the tapes. Then he put them in a pocket; he kept the bloodied handkerchief in his hand.
I gestured with the gun. ‘On your way. This is the big city. I don’t think you fit in.’
Flabby shuffled towards the door. Peroni tore his eyes away from Kelly, and looked at Grey who nodded. They moved after Flabby.
‘I want my gun,’ Peroni said.
‘Tell you what I’ll do, Carl. If you piss off now, I won’t leave it here for the cops to find.’
They went down the hall and out of the apartment. I closed the door and listened for their steps on the gravel, and finally the sound of a car engine. A little fresh air had come in while the door was open, and I leaned against the wall and breathed it for a while with my eyes closed. Then I collected Peroni’s gun, the video and Mountain’s manuscript. I wiped the glass I’d used, doused the lights in the apartment and went out through the french windows at the side.
There was a promise of dawn in the sky, and the light night breeze already had a touch of warmth in it. There were a few lights burning in the apartments, but no sound or movement. Ginny Ireland’s silver VW was standing crookedly in its parking space and one mudguard was a crumpled ruin. There was a pair of shoes in the middle of the path to her door. I walked out to the street, and it took me a long time to get the key in the lock and open the door. My hand was shaking, so the ignition key jiggled automatically and the engine started sweetly.
I drove home watching for a tail and not seeing one, and so tired and shaken that I could hardly keep the car in top gear. I approached the house car
efully, went in quickly with my two guns, and found the usual still emptiness. With the doors locked, I treated myself for shock and fatigue with aspirin and whisky, and slept for a couple of hours in my clothes on the couch. I woke up with the video cassette in my pocket digging into me and a shaft of light shining into my eyes.
The phone blipped briefly, but the machine picked up the call. I cleaned myself up, made coffee and sat down to look at Bill Mountain’s book. It was typed on yellow A4 paper, double spaced and with wide margins. There was no title page and the pages were unnumbered. I leafed through it, page by page at first and then turning them over in ten page batches. The typescript had no chapter divisions and no headings. There was no punctuation. The lines of type switched from upper to lower case at random. It was written in English, French and German and at least half of it was in no language at all, gibberish.
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